Pariah
by Vosburg
Summary: Mylandah's life after the Great Competition of 4999 (OAV)...(Complete)
1. Return

Battle Athletes is owned by AIC/Pioneer and the original creators. This is based on the OAV series. Comments can be sent to Vosburg@gravitoncity.net  
  
  
  
Pariah  
  
by Vosburg  
  
  
  
My room slowly comes into focus as I awaken.  
  
I look once again at the dozen or so minor flaws; I've done so each day I've been here.  
  
The mirror slightly out of alignment with its frame. Small cracks in the walls. Nothing glaringly obvious, but flaws that a first class hotel would have repaired at the earliest opportunity.  
  
But this isn't a first class hotel...at least, not anymore.  
  
A few months ago, I wouldn't have given this place a second  
  
glance, much less considered staying in it.  
  
Then again, a few months ago, I could afford to snub any  
  
place or person that I felt was below my station. That is no longer the case.  
  
Now, I must take whatever living quarters I can persuade someone to give me,  
  
for whatever length of time they are willing to let me stay.  
  
I sit up, noting the time: 8:00 am -- well past the time I usually rise.  
  
If I were still on the Satellite, I would have been in my third hour  
  
of training by now. Sleeping this long would have been inexcusable.  
  
Not that it matters anymore. I have no training to do nowadays.  
  
I rest my head against my knees, and pull the blanket around my shoulders.  
  
There is so much I have to do, and yet I cannot seem to find the energy even to  
  
leave the bed.  
  
I hear a knock at the door; tentative, as if the person knocking  
  
is frightened that I'll hear. I do not answer, fearful of the reason for the intrusion. I hunch my shoulders, pulling the blanket tighter around myself.  
  
Another knock, more insistent this time.  
  
I have no choice but to reply. "Yes?"  
  
"Ms. Walder?" The hotel manager, I think. His voice is unsteady, hesitant.  
  
"Yes, what is it?" I think I already know.  
  
"I'm sorry to disturb you, but there have…ah...been complaints from some of  
  
the other tenants. I know that you have done nothing that violates the rules of this hotel, but we must consider the satisfaction of our guests as a whole.  
  
While this is unpleasant for me to say...I regret that I will have to ask you to  
  
make...other arrangements for your housing...by Saturday, at the latest."  
  
It does not come as a surprise that he has asked me to leave, not after my  
  
experiences these past couple of months. Still, I would have liked to stay a  
  
little longer – no, that's not right. I would have liked not to have to move  
  
-- again -- for a little longer.  
  
But, what can I say? If I refuse, the police will surely be called. Given my current reputation, they will doubtless side with the manager.  
  
"Ms. Walder?"  
  
"I heard you. I'm to leave by Saturday." My voice is flat, devoid of emotion.  
  
"Thank you. I'm sorry about this..."  
  
Small consolation that is.  
  
I barely notice the sound of his retreating footsteps. My thoughts are  
  
already turning to finding another hotel, or boarding house, or...somewhere...that I can stay for a few days.  
  
My head slumps onto my knees. I think again on how far I have fallen.  
  
Not three months ago, I was known to the public as Mylandah the Swift, Mylandah the Conqueror, Mylandah the Fighting Maiden of France.  
  
Now, I am known as Mylandah the horrible. Mylandah the treasonous.  
  
Mylandah Arkar Walder, the National Disgrace, who was expelled during the  
  
Great Competition, with countless cameras carrying the news to every human-inhabited planet, satellite, and colony.  
  
The country that once revered me, now abhors me.  
  
Yet, with all that has happened to me, with all my problems, it is still  
  
the same thought that comes back to me, over and over.  
  
Why, Lahrri?  
  
Why wouldn't you look at me?  
  
  
  
  
  
Notes: 'Pariah' is sort of a 'continuation' story. I wondered what life must  
  
have been like for Mylandah after she returned to Earth, given the events of  
  
the last two episodes. This is part of a longer story, but until I can clarify  
  
the rules of posting, I'll just add to it whenever I get subsequent chapters done.  
  
4/9/02: Reuploaded to try and fix text display. 


	2. That Was Then, This Is Now

--  
  
  
  
Pariah  
  
by Vosburg  
  
Part Two: That Was Then, This Is Now  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: No, still don't own Battle Athletes.  
  
  
  
  
  
Finally, I manage to get out of bed. I head to the washroom, throw some cold water in my face.  
  
I look in the mirror, to see a much older woman gazing back at me.  
  
Has it only been five months? Unbelievable that so much could have happened since I came back to Earth.  
  
Slightly more awake now, I stretch, then return to the bedroom, where I begin a series of exercises (more accurately, I *make* myself do them). I have to keep in shape, I tell myself. If only I could believe it. The only reason I've been able to keep going is that I thought (deluded myself?) that there might be an opportunity to get back in the running, work my way through the training academies, petition for readmission to the Satellite.  
  
But as the months have gone by, that idea seems more and more remote. Every place I've applied to has either rejected me outright, or ignored me.  
  
I suppose, from an objective viewpoint, I can't blame them. At some campuses, there have been students who have flatly stated that if I attend, they will not. In some cases, the parents threaten to pull them out. Given that kind of choice, it's only reasonable that my applications have not been accepted.  
  
Not that that helps me any.  
  
I push the thought from my head, and continue to exercise.  
  
Stretch. Twist ninety degrees at the waist, arms outstretched. Bend and touch toes.  
  
It's about midday on the Satellite. She must be in the pool now. She always did like to do a few laps before lunch.  
  
/No. Stop that. You have to concentrate./  
  
That is the rational section of my brain attempting to keep focused on what I'm doing.  
  
Stretch, twist, bend.  
  
She usually spends half an hour in the pool on an average day.  
  
/You haven't the time for reminiscing. You have more applications to send out. You have to find another hotel to stay at./  
  
Stretch, twist, bend.  
  
I try to keep at my exercises, without success.  
  
Just to watch her train again would be wonderful.  
  
  
  
  
  
I remember the day I first left for the Satellite.  
  
There were thousands of spectators at the shuttle station, waving at me and the other two who had qualified for Battle Athletes. At fifteen, I was one of the most promising athletes in France. One of the few considered most likely to win the Trophy which had eluded all of Europe for over a decade. Our departure was filled with banners, dignitaries, and citizens throwing roses.  
  
I paid no attention to any of them.  
  
As far as I was concerned, it was all unnecessary noise from insignificant people. The only reason I troubled myself to wave was that my mother insisted it was necessary for 'propriety'.  
  
During the flight, my companions made use of the rare opportunity to see the Earth from space.  
  
I barely noticed it. I was thinking about the level of competition I would face on the Satellite. In a way, I'm sorry I didn't really look around me at the time. When I got around to it (several trips later), I realized it really was breathtaking.  
  
We arrived at the Academy along with dozens of students from the Earth, the Moon, colonies from planets barely settled. As we made our way to Assembly, I began to size up the competition. In general, I was not impressed. For all the talk of these being the best that humanity had to offer, the headmasters still seemed to have accepted a few that didn't know what they were about. Those who were already counting the money they would make from endorsements after they left. The ones who considered it 'enough just to have gotten here'. And the ones I had the most contempt for, the vaporbrains. Always nattering that they wanted to impress some boy back home, or that their half-wit friends would be so impressed when they 'saw me on The Satellite'.  
  
Pathetic creatures who simply put in their time at the Academy until they got tired of playing and left.  
  
Even among the majority of students, it did not appear that there was much to worry me. They lacked the stamina, the inspiration, the talent that could challenge me.  
  
As we began to fill the Assembly room, I stood to the side of the mass. The others were talking amongst themselves; by and large, I chose to have nothing to do with them.  
  
Then I saw you, Lahrri.  
  
At first, I didn't know it was you. I heard voices buzzing near the back of the room; I turned to look because there was nothing else to hold my attention. Some of the girls were pointing; some gaping.  
  
Suddenly, as if by command, the crowd at the back separated.  
  
And you strode through them.  
  
I'll never forget that instant. It was like watching gazelles scatter before the cougar, sparrows before the eagle.  
  
You strode not with bravado, but with strength, concentration, assurance. It was as if the rest came merely to compete and you alone came to win.  
  
I couldn't tear my eyes from you. Even the vaporbrains, the ones whose heads were mostly untroubled by thoughts, were able to see that their superior had arrived.  
  
I could barely keep from looking at you when Headmaster Oldman was giving his 'welcome to the Satellite' speech.  
  
I only half listened to it; that was not what mattered to me at the time. What mattered was that I had found a true rival, a worthy opponent.  
  
No, there was more to it than that. I felt more aware, more.alive than I had in my entire life. It was like everything I had done until that time was irrelevant.  
  
That first night in my dorm room, I could not sleep. All I saw was you: sure, strong, with the beauty of the tigress.  
  
I wanted to conquer that tigress.  
  
That one thought dominated my years at the Satellite. I ran faster, became stronger that I ever was before. I surpassed even what I thought myself capable of. All for you. Sure, I said it was for myself, but I knew that I was trying to gain your approval. It's odd that, considering that I was so scornful of those girls who did this to impress a would-be paramour, I realize now that I was essentially doing the same.  
  
Yet, I could never keep up with you. I always fell short by a few centimeters, I was always slower by a few seconds.  
  
It simply drove me to push myself even more. I vowed I would make you recognize me as the only one worthy of you.  
  
Would it have hurt you so much to notice me, just for a while?  
  
You spoke to me so rarely, looked at me so few times. Do you know how I felt, how much it hurt? I might not show it often, but I do have feelings.  
  
Just to run around the track a few times, swim a few laps, the two of us.  
  
  
  
  
  
My thoughts return to the present, to my dismay. I have to go through my mail for the day (even if I know most of it consists of rejections) and send out more applications (however, with the likely results, I'm beginning to think of myself as a masochist on that count).  
  
Moreover, I've got to find a boarding house or hotel to stay at. I've been here over two weeks - somewhat of a record for me lately. With my computer, I have located several potential hotels in the city. Finding a suitable (and accommodating) one will require several attempts - and much travel. I mentally divide the city into roughly three sectors, giving myself roughly a day in each to find a room.  
  
I recoil from the thought of having to ask for a room again, knowing I'll likely see several doors slam in my face before I find one. My mood is not improved by seeing the usual cluster of rejections in my email. But, as the search must be done, there's nothing for it. I dress and leave the hotel, determined if not hopeful.  
  
  
  
I return after dark, with nothing but failure to attend me. My main accomplishment is that I've kept my legs in condition with all that walking. Silently I throw my cloak on a chair, and stand close to the bed, where I usually do my exercises.  
  
I then decide to shower first.  
  
I return to the bedroom, and prepare for my exercises, when a wave of despair hits me. For a few seconds, I keep my stance, determined to do my nightly routines, but.all at once, the energy seems to leave.  
  
I hurl myself onto the mattress, half pull the cover over myself, and sleep fitfully.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Notes: If you are confused about Mylandah's having a laptop in this story, not to mention a lot of personal wealth, the reason is this: From the OAV, she gave the impression of being from a family of some status. Not only because the disdain she showed most of those around her , but from the scene in the control room in episode 6, where she says that Lahrri cannot lose to someone like Kris (implying that she objected to Lahrri losing to someone who was athletically/socially inferior.  
  
Comments appreciated. Even though I had this story plotted in its entirety before I wrote the first part, it seems to grow every time I write it. 


	3. Family: You really cannot go home again

Pariah  
  
by Vosburg  
  
Part Three: Family (You really cannot go home again)  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: No, still don't own Battle Athletes.  
  
  
  
  
  
I wake to the buzzing of my alarm. Just as well I'd set it to go off at the same time every morning, as I forgot to check the setting last night.  
  
I don't even make a pretense of doing my exercises. I pull myself across the bed to the small desk alongside. I pull out my laptop; with a combination of anticipation and fatalism, I read my mail.  
  
I find what I anticipated.  
  
I gaze at one e-mail after another. All with essentially the same message.  
  
Budapest Primary Academy: "We have a great backlog of applicants at present, and will be unable to process new applicants for some time."  
  
Riga National Academy: "You must think us either very forgiving or very dense, if you believe that we would seriously consider you as a student after what you have done."  
  
Cologne Sports Group: "We ask that you do not call us again, as you are wasting your time and ours."  
  
Three messages, varying in tone from polite lies to outright contempt. Why I expected anything different, why I *ought* to expect anything different, I do not know.  
  
I begin to access the Worldscan on my computer, a network specifically for data searches on Earth, in an attempt to find more places to apply to. I'm now asking second, or more often third-tier campuses to give me at least a trial semester, probation, anything just to keep in condition.  
  
My fingers stop before they hit the keyboard.  
  
I ask myself: What's the point?  
  
I've gotten enough frustration from the constant barrage of rejection letters. From the plain 'no', to the indignant 'you will enter our academy only over the decaying corpses of the faculty' - it wears one down after a while.  
  
I close my computer case. Perhaps I'll do better at finding another hotel where I can remain for a few days. I again make myself exercise, pull myself into the shower, dress slowly, my body moving without hope or energy.  
  
As I pull my cloak around me, I make a few changes to my appearance. I comb my hair to the right, securing it with a heavy clip. I also smudge my face slightly. This has become part of my routine, varying my appearance in an attempt to keep from being recognized too easily.  
  
One more thing I never thought I'd be doing.  
  
I briefly press my ear to the door. I do not hear anyone in the hall. I open it silently, casting furtive glances to right and left.  
  
There is no one about. With a brief sigh of relief, I leave the room, lock the door, and walk noiselessly to the stairs.  
  
Once in the main lobby, I slow my pace; I don't want to attract attention. As I pass the front desk, the manager briefly looks in my direction, then turns to other business. Everyone else in the area is preoccupied. Fortunate for me; I don't need a scene here.  
  
As soon as I'm out of the hotel, I pull the hood of my cloak over my head. Since the wind is picking up, I expect that I won't look out of place with most of my head covered. In fact, it's more to protect me from recognition that anything else.  
  
I walk as unobtrusively as I can, much different from the assured stride I used to affect, the one which virtually dared anyone to remain in my path. I glance discreetly at cafes and restaurants, trying to find one not too crowded, not too lively. The only goal I have now is a short breakfast, and after that I can go after today's prospects. If one of them works, merely one, that's all right with me.  
  
I settle on a RapiDine, one of the fast food franchises in the city. I once thought I would cut my own throat before I would enter such a place. That was before I learned that the restaurants I preferred to eat at would not allow me in once I showed my identification, assuming someone hadn't already recognized me, in which case I would be told to leave on the spot.  
  
Even at the smaller, less expensive places I had problems. There were always people glaring at me, making derisive comments just loud enough for me to hear. On occasion, they would be loud enough for everyone to hear.  
  
I remember an outdoor café where I had just finished eating, when a couple, regular patrons from what I could see, began to sit at a table not far from me. As the headwaiter came for their order, the man suddenly stood up and looked at me.  
  
The headwaiter was confused. "Is anything amiss, sir?"  
  
The man turned to him, then back to me.  
  
"We won't be requiring your services today," he said in a voice that carried across the cafe, "as your standards have obviously dropped. Perhaps we'll return another time, after you have removed the vermin from your premises."  
  
As he spoke, his eyes never left me. The rest of the customers turned to look at me as well, some in confusion, some in contempt.  
  
I sat for a moment, stunned, wondering how to respond.  
  
After a few seconds, I realized there wasn't really a choice. I silently got up, paid, and took my leave.  
  
There was another time, at a beach in Calais. I was looking out at the water when the waitress brought my order - some fruit salad, as far as I recollect - and stopped in front of me. I waited for her to place it on the table, when I noticed she had this odd expression on her face. For a few seconds, she just looked at me.  
  
Then, she tipped the bowl, emptying the contents on my boots.  
  
The chef came over, demanding to know what she thought she was doing. She said nothing, just stood there without the slightest trace of apology. Actually, her expression was one of self- satisfaction. The chef turned to me to apologize.  
  
But when he saw who I was, his face suddenly contorted with distaste. His reprimand stopped mid-sentence; instead, he simply told her to go on to another table. I began to ask what he was going to do about the waitress, and my boots. He said with a sneer that I would not be charged for the salad, threw a towel on the table, and suggested that if I did not like the service, there were many other places to eat in the city.  
  
I suppose that, if I had been some wit, I'd have made a cutting remark that would leave the chef speechless with embarrassment. However, I was not, and clever retorts would not have helped anyway.  
  
If I had been the person I was a few months ago, the waitress would have been on the ground, spitting out her teeth. But that was a lifetime ago, or so it seemed.  
  
Again, I walked out.  
  
Anyone who knew me would be astonished. That I would tolerate anyone treating me in such a manner, that I would allow anyone to speak to me as others have done recently, would be unthinkable. The woman I was would never have brooked such indignity, not for a moment.  
  
Today, however, no one recognizes me. I sit at a table that is out of the way, and look at a completely unremarkable entrée. The first couple of times I tried eating at places like this, I couldn't hold the food down. Nothing like what I was used to, being from a moderately well off family. I've grown accustomed to this type of food since then, not that I find that reassuring.  
  
Anytime I eat in a place like this, I remember how much better it was at home, both in atmosphere and the quality. How I'd like to have one of those dinners again.  
  
Reality steps in on my memories. For me, those days are past.  
  
  
  
  
  
When I was expelled from the Satellite Academy, I thought they would send me to Earth on the next shuttle. Actually, I did not leave for over two weeks. Headmaster Oldman claimed that it was to give my leg fracture time to heal; from what I know now, it was more likely that he knew what would happen once I returned, and did not want me to face a maddened crowd upon my arrival.  
  
I spent those weeks mainly in bed. I rarely spoke to anyone - not when they brought food, not when they asked how my leg felt. None of the students came to visit; I sort of expected that, as I've never really been close with any of them.  
  
Lahrri did not visit, either. I expected that as well.  
  
But I had hoped that perhaps she might. If only for a few minutes...  
  
Most of the time, I sat staring at the wall. I was too shattered, not so much by losing (although I still wonder how I could lose to a girl who constantly falls over her own feet), but by the growing awareness that I would no longer be competing with Lahrri.  
  
That hurt far more than any mere dismissal.  
  
On the day I left the Satellite, I walked slowly to the shuttle bay, escorted by two headmistresses. I did not bother with them. I was constantly glancing about to see if *she* would come to see me off.  
  
She never showed. I looked until I could no longer see the bay and she never showed.  
  
The journey back to Earth seemed endless.  
  
When I arrived, there were no mobs waiting to attack me. It wasn't that I was anticipating them, as my thoughts were still on the Satellite. Headmaster Oldman had certainly something to do with the lack of a reception committee. By not announcing the day of my arrival, he gave them no specific time to 'greet' me. The only other solution for them was to remain at the shuttle gates for days on end. By the time I actually got there, any crowds had long since grown tired of waiting.  
  
That did not mean that they had forgotten. Not by any means.  
  
There *was* someone waiting for me, however. A car was there to drive me to the nearby airfield. From there, a private plane flew me to my home city of Calais.  
  
A few hours later, I was in another car, outside the gates of my house. I noticed at once that there were men in dark suits patrolling outside the walls, wary of anyone who appeared to come too close: A private security firm, I thought, but why?  
  
I would find out soon enough.  
  
I asked one of them what was going on. He said only that I was to go straight in, and that my mother was being notified that I was on my way. I looked at him briefly, waiting for an explanation, but it was clear that he would say no more. He had already turned his attention back to the street, and the driver was through the gates, which swung quickly closed as soon as the car had passed them.  
  
About a minute later, I was standing in front of my house, duffel bag slung over my shoulder. Not that it took that long to reach the front door. I spent half a minute just sitting in the back of the car.  
  
I climbed the stairs warily. There were a few more men inside the gates, eyes searching the walls for anything that might have evaded the men on the outside. A pair of them stood to either side of the door. I briefly wondered whether they would tell me any more than the one at the gate, then decided not to ask.  
  
The door began to open smoothly, mechanically.  
  
I've overheard that many people think I have a cold, merciless gaze. Perhaps I do; I've never thought much about it. It could be the crimson in my eyes. On the other hand, it could be my personality. But I've never thought of it as anything special, mostly because I have seen far colder expressions.  
  
The majority of them from the person just inside the doorway. She stands uncompromisingly straight, thin, the always-icy stare on her face.  
  
"Mylandah," my mother said, with no discernable emotion.  
  
Was there anything that I could say? With everything that had happened in the past few weeks, any reply would have seemed banal.  
  
"Might I enter?" The only response I can think of. Almost as if I can see where this is going.  
  
"There are recent.events we must discuss."  
  
From that point, I knew that that afternoon would not go well.  
  
My father joined us in the dining room. He still has the build of a farmer, muscled and somewhat spare of frame, but he seems more.gaunt than usual, like someone under great stress. The servants brought tea, wordlessly, remaining only long enough to see that everything was in order, then leaving as if there was some business elsewhere in the house that demanded their presence. No asking how I was, no small talk at all. Not that this was unusual in our house, but the way they were acting was reserved even by our standards.  
  
My mother just stared into her glass for a while, while my father glanced at me, his face alternating between worry and vexation.  
  
I was about to begin drinking when Cadian, my younger brother, entered. Hair unkempt, almost sapling-thin; just as I always remembered him. As I looked up, he turned his head, as if embarrassed.  
  
"Hi, Sis," he said without looking back at me.  
  
"Cadian? What's wrong? What are you hiding."  
  
I decided not to ask, but to see for myself. I was in no mood for drawn out inquiries or games. I pulled him around to face me.  
  
That was when I saw the bruise under his right eye.  
  
At first, I was confused. Since he's always been active in sports, but not particularly skilled *at* them, he's collected a number of fractures and bruises over the years. Why he was concealing this one mystified me.  
  
"He was attacked a few days ago," my mother said, foreboding in her voice. "And you notice the security around the house. That's because refuse has been thrown at the walls. Some of the servants have been harassed as well. All this since the Great Competition - you understand."  
  
My head came up slightly. The last two words hung in the air, a clear accusation. I knew that I was likely to suffer as a result of what I did on the Satellite, but not others. Apparently, in my absence, the indignation that would have been visited on me found another target.  
  
"What caused you to do it, Mylandah? With all you had going for you.*why*?" That comes from my father. Even though his words are also sharp with accusation, the concern for me in his voice is obvious.  
  
As is the detachment in my mother's. "The cause of her actions is not the problem at present. The results are. Still, I suppose I ought to have given her more moral guidance."  
  
There is an uncomfortable silence. She was obviously finding the exact words for some speech.  
  
"Mylandah, I'll be brief, as there is no point in prolonging this. A few days ago, your father and I came to the conclusion that given the current circumstances, some sort of drastic choice would be necessary to preserve the integrity of the family. It has been decided that, within two days of your return, you were to make a life of your own, with your own resources. All of the investments, bonds, and monies set aside for you have been gathered here; I can give them to you when you leave, or you can have them anytime before then."  
  
My father and brother looked at her with varying expressions. By my father's face, I could see that he obviously has not 'decided' the issue as certainly as my mother says he has. My brother looked as though he has not even been told of this, which would not surprise me, as my mother has rarely consulted him on anything - whether it concerned him or not.  
  
She did not meet either of their gazes, instead she continued to look at me, waiting for an answer.  
  
I was trying to come to grips with what was happening to me, what was going to happen.  
  
In desperation, I looked at her, my expression asking for assistance some kind of leniency. As much as I detest asking anyone for help, events were now beginning to swamp me. I had to have time to sort myself out, however brief. More than the time she was allowing.  
  
I ought to have known better. Her face made it clear that there would be no more consideration of the matter on her part.  
  
My head sagged in defeat. "I'll take them now. To make the best use of my assets, I ought to know precisely what I've got."  
  
The words were without inflection, the monotone a mirror of my mood.  
  
"Of course," she replied, gesturing to a servant, who disappeared through a doorway.  
  
My father and brother were obviously displeased, merely waiting for the chance to speak to her in private, in my defense. Not that it would benefit me any. Events would happen as she wanted; they always did. She would bend them to her point of view, or at least she would make certain they did not openly oppose them.  
  
And so it went.  
  
A few days later, I was again at my front door with my duffel bag - except that this time I was leaving. My father and brother bid me farewell (my mother had, as expected, manipulated them into not opposing her plans), as did some of the servants, while my mother looked on from a distance - her only concern, as it seemed to me, was to make certain that I had actually left.  
  
Another car was there, to drive me to the business district. From there, I would be on my own.  
  
As I rode from the house, I didn't turn to see my family one more time. It occurred to me that I had said everything I wanted to a long time ago, one way or another.  
  
  
  
  
  
Now that I think of it, it's amazing that I've never really understood my family for most of my life. I thought I did once, but that was really a skewed vision of a younger, arrogant self. Only in my current state of affairs have I finally been able to see them as they really were.  
  
The prime example of this is when my mother lamented not devoting more time to my moral upbringing. As serious as my current dilemma is, I still have to keep from laughing at that.  
  
My mother has never been big on ethical codes. About the only rules she has are: Don't embarrass the family - or if you do, don't get caught. Since I accompanied her on some of her business trips when I was younger, I've overheard her on a number of occasions. If some of her business practices weren't exactly against the law, they were well into the 'gray' area . I also remember a few times when I was alone in the hotel room while she was 'concluding a deal', which no doubt took place in the bedroom of the client.  
  
And she says she ought to have taught me morals.  
  
In a way, she did. I've always patterned myself after her, consciously or not, in many aspects of my personality. She never troubled herself with the feelings of others (unless those others were of interest to her); neither did I. She did not lose sleep over how others might have been hurt by her actions; I have rarely given the consequences of my actions a second thought.  
  
Conversely, I've always seen my father as ineffectual and sentimental; in short, weak. As long as I can remember, almost anytime he has had a difference of opinion with her, her view prevailed.  
  
For a long time, I thought it was because of his naivety, his origins in the farmland; that he was far too dull to compete with someone as well- heeled as his wife. Only recently did I come to understand that he knew of intrigue and manipulation just as well as she did; she was merely much more skilled, as well as accustomed to using them. He wasn't dull, just vastly outclassed. For him, manipulation was used only when necessary; for her, it was second nature, reflexive.  
  
Now, as I think of my parents, I have finally come to know one aspect of their lives, one that was not obvious for a long time.  
  
For most of my life, I had always thought of my mother as being the one in control of her life, while my father was little more than a primary servant to her.  
  
But, for all the disagreements he has lost, all the times he has wound up agreeing to do as she wants, he has at least attempted to follow what was his own code.  
  
As opposed to my mother, who has simply been following a script.  
  
Despite the wealth, the reputation as an uncompromising, merciless woman, the truth is that few of her actions have been her own concept. Most of her life has been spent doing what her parents and her peers said that a woman of her stature ought to do. She engages in 'gray' business dealings not so much for wealth, but because that is how she was taught to do. She has extramarital affairs because her peers told her that women of her rank are 'expected' to have them. There was no passion in them; I've noticed that her past lovers have shown no great excitement when they had occasion to meet her again.  
  
And it went on into marriage. My father was chosen for no other reason but his genetic potential, with no more emotion than one would select a race horse (I've often had an image of her walking down a line of suitors - stopping only to check each one's teeth). Since she was expected to have heirs, I and my brother were born - and I have no doubt that that was the only reason, since the only aspect of childbirth that she has mentioned concerns how much discomfort it caused her (never about the happiness of seeing her children for the first time, of holding the newborns in her arms). Like everything else, it was just what she was 'supposed' to do.  
  
The truth is that her coldness did not come from suppressing her emotions. There is nothing for her to suppress. Her expression is not a mask over seething emotions, as there is nothing under the mask. For all the money, the businesses, the servants she controls, she lives by rote; able to set hundreds of people into action, yet without the will to divert her own fate one degree.  
  
That was the true basis of her moral code: Whatever allowed her to remain on the path she was 'supposed' to take was an asset, and whatever diverted her from it was a liability.  
  
And that was the real reason I was thrown out. Not because of some disgrace to the nation or my family, but because I had knocked askew her carefully planned life. In her script, heirs were for having, so you could show you had someone to carry on the lineage; if they distinguished themselves so much the better. In the end, however, they were just another group of assets. However, once I had brought shame on the family, I was no longer an asset - I was a liability; more accurately, I was a liability that upset the script that my mother was following.  
  
The solution, to her, was clear: The liability must be gotten rid of.  
  
I doubt she had any reservations about her choice. Losing a daughter? Unfortunate, but no more than that. She would no doubt summon a press conference, saying that she had 'with a heavy heart' decided to cut ties with her daughter, and that as a result of my actions I was no longer welcome there (read: Mylandah is no longer at this residence, so there is no longer any point in harassing us).  
  
  
  
Once again, I return after dark, with nothing to show for my efforts. I throw myself on the bed and look, for no real reason, at the door. My thoughts wander randomly, aimlessly - much as I have been doing for most of the day.  
  
Yet, after a time, my thoughts turn to what was my home, to my family.  
  
Since I've left, oddly enough, I've been increasingly thinking of my father. For years, I tried not to emulate any of his traits. Yet, he never really gave up on his wife, even when he knew that she had chosen him for no other reason than to sire her offspring, he tried to make theirs a real marriage, to win her love, get her to feel genuine respect for him.  
  
And she never did. Either she ignored his efforts completely or dismissed them as pointless every time.  
  
I think about all those endeavors now.  
  
And I think about Lahrri, and all the efforts I've made to get her to take me seriously, or just to look at me.  
  
Perhaps I have more in common with him than I thought.  
  
  
  
Notes: This chapter was mainly an exercise in background - an attempt to come up with a viable origin for Mylandah. However, I began to realize that with her wandering the continent (England and France, mostly), that I ought to have some explanation of the why she didn't just go home. That explanation became the subplot that she *did* go home, but wasn't allowed to stay. 


	4. One day in Boulogne

Pariah  
  
by Vosburg  
  
Part Four: One Day in Boulogne  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: No, still don't own Battle Athletes.  
  
  
  
Idly, I look at my plate. I've been so distracted this morning that it just occurred to me that I haven't the foggiest what I had for breakfast. I vaguely recall speaking to the person on the other side of the counter, but between trying to remain unrecognized and my depression as of late, I cannot remember what it was that I asked for.  
  
I see the remnants of waffles and eggs, or at least what passes for them in this diner. As for what it tasted like, perhaps it's better that I don't remember clearly.  
  
The regular patrons are beginning to file in. Time to leave.  
  
Right now, being on the street is safer. The wind is hurling leaves and detritus about, stinging everyone's eyes, so they are too occupied with shielding their faces to look too closely at mine.  
  
I have a method for finding residences, one that has evolved from painful experience. First, I try to make sure that I reach any potential target during the change of shift, preferably just before the new shift arrives. By then, the managers and attendants are generally anticipating being able to go home, and hopefully won't pay too much attention to a somewhat disheveled woman asking for a room. If I'm lucky, they'll try to get me checked in fast, so they can prepare to leave. Second, I have to make sure I pay for the room in cash - I made the mistake of using a charge card the first couple of days after leaving the family home, and I remember well the uproar that followed whenever they saw my name. Since then, I have never shown any identification if I can avoid it. Third, I make certain that my dagger is within reach; one of the consequences of having to stay at the less reputable hotels is the clientele. More than once I've blocked my door with furniture, for greater security.  
  
My dagger was a gift, for winning my first national competition. I remember its craftsmanship fascinated me when I first saw it - and I've never been that generous with compliments. The blade is nine inches steel forged by a master.  
  
It's been my last line of defense against any potential attackers. The second has been my reputation. As a famous (or infamous) athlete, my skills are widely known - specifically, I own belts in three styles of martial arts. My first line of defense is my gaze; dispassionate and cold, it generally keeps any would-be instigators at a distance. In the past months there have been many who have thrown insults; some have tried to express their displeasure with me more directly. Still, I have been fortunate not to have occasion to use the dagger.  
  
Yet.  
  
I discreetly ask about hotels in the area. I keep my cloak drawn tightly about my face and body, under pretext of warmth. In truth, it helps me to conceal myself from those I speak to. For the most part, it seems to work. I get two or three suspicious glances, nothing more.  
  
The first two candidates fall through, as there are no vacancies. At the third, someone looks close to identifying me and calling the manager, so I retreat. Another three I dismiss because of several unsavory types in the near vicinity. Not that I can't defend myself; I'd just like a place where I can sleep without having to keep one eye on the door.  
  
About all my efforts have come to so far is sight-seeing. I head for my next prospects, a pair of motels close to each other. After that, I suppose I ought to have lunch.  
  
As I continue to head for the pair of motels that was my target, my thoughts return to those who have insulted and rejected me. The truth is that they know only of that one incident. I cannot help but wonder what everyone would think if they knew the whole story. All the derision and abuse I've suffered was because of the one action that I was *caught* at, namely, rigging the 100-meter dash so that Lahrri would not lose. No one has yet found out about my resetting the controls in the training room when Kanzaki was using it (which would have resulted in her being maimed), or my reprogramming of the controls on the ARMS satellite when Kanzaki and her team were on their midterms (*that* would have been three counts of homicide). Putting it into perspective, I ought to have been in prison for at least two decades, if I had been accused - and convicted - of everything I had really done. I wonder, at times, if what I have gone through recently is some kind of justice by the Fates, a sentence from them to substitute for the one that an unknowing human court could not give me. At one time I would have scoffed at such a concept, and the Fates for that matter, but in light of all that's happened, it's oddly.logical.  
  
It wasn't until my return that I really began to think of what I'd done on the Satellite. What the results would have been if any of my plans worked. At minimum, Kanzaki would have been injured for life. While I was there, such thoughts never occurred to me. She was an irritant, and merely required removal. In retrospect, that time was like a fever dream - my obsession with Lahrri and my disrespect for Kanzaki driving me to actions which make me wonder at times what drove me. To say that my mother would have done it much the same way is no longer sufficient; I know (or rather knew) that there were other ways to do what I wanted.  
  
Yet, I doubt that I'd even be considering my actions in the past at this point if I *hadn't* been sent home in disgrace. Even with all that happened since then, this has been the first time I've thought of anyone outside my family as having feelings, hopes, sorrows. Having seen the 'public' firsthand (during those times that I've managed to remain unidentified), I've come to understand them somewhat, what drives those people that I never paid attention to before.  
  
Conversely, for all the acrimony that has descended on me, I've always found it darkly humorous that many of those who abhor me (not all, or even most, but a significant percentage) do so on grounds that are nothing less than hypocritical. When they speak of how I 'revealed' my treachery, or were shocked to 'discover' my real nature, I almost laugh, in spite of myself.  
  
I've never hidden what I was from anyone.  
  
After I won my first national competition, I had many charitable groups ask me to endorse them. I turned most of them down, and it was only because of my mother that I *did* agree to speak for any of them (about three, if I recall). Soon after I was accepted as a Battle Athlete, I attended a public reception for those going to the Satellite. On the way, there were crowds lining the streets, cheering us on. I remember one woman shouting for an autograph, for her daughter. She said that her daughter had always tried to imitate me, and that it would make her day if I could just sign some sort of book for her (I didn't hear exactly what type of book, as the crowd's noise blotted out her words, and I wasn't paying that much attention anyway).  
  
I went past her without even slowing.  
  
The press, and our coaches, put the best face on my actions. I was 'focused on the upcoming trials', they said. 'She's tired', they said. And the woman believed them, and the public believed them. Later the coaches would reprimand me for not being more civil to the fans, and ask that I work on my public image. I would always reply that I was not interested in an image, I was there to win the Trophy.  
  
And they would sigh, and scowl, but they did no more than that.  
  
Because I was winning.  
  
That was my great lesson before I reached the Satellite. As long as you are victorious, others will put up with nearly anything from you. The coaches, the press, the public. I was intolerant, uncivil, and unfriendly to most everyone I met. Yet no one confronted me, demanded that I apologize for my actions and words - I was winning, and by association so were they, so everything was all right.  
  
It wasn't until after my expulsion that they 'realized' who I was, at least according to them. They were 'surprised by my sudden change of personality', 'stunned when I revealed my true nature'. I did not 'reveal' or 'change' any aspect of my personality; the only change after my expulsion was that they no longer turned a blind eye.  
  
  
  
  
  
Now it is nearly midday. The two motels I was sought would have been quite useful; unfortunately, I was pointed out at both of them. After that, events went as they usually do.  
  
Even though I ought to keep searching, despondency begins to overcome me. I meander aimlessly, and eventually find myself wandering near the harbor. A row of storefronts stretches in front of me. Idly, I glance at an electronics store, with dozens of vidscreens in the window; next to it is some sort of nautical store, selling rope of various thickness for use on the ships in the harbor. An elderly woman with an insulated cape (which is showing a few loose threads - she's had it for a while) meanders among the shops, gazing at them with varying degrees of interest. She seems to know the area, but rarely speaks to anyone in the shops. I see a distant expression on her face, and wonder if she is really aware of what's going on around her.  
  
A flash from the vidscreens of the electronics store catches my eye. I turn to see several identical images of the gymnasium of the Satellite Academy. Someone is apparently doing a newscast, but since there is no sound, I don't know what it is about.  
  
The scene switches again.  
  
And my breath stops.  
  
The image is now of *her*. I see her face, on dozens of screens, looking at the camera. At me. There is a caption below the image. "New Record - 500m".  
  
The caption, however, is of little interest to me. I gaze at that face, unable to see anyone else. My hands press against the glass of the shop. For a second, I have the insane feeling that if I could go through the glass, I could jump through one of the screens and find myself in front of her.  
  
My hands push more vigorously against the glass now. Wait for me, Lahrri. Please wait.  
  
Even as my rational side says that what I'm doing is nonsense, my arms push with more and more energy. I hear the glass begin to shift in its mounting, but I cannot seem to stop myself.  
  
Suddenly, the image shifts again. Now the camera is on the anchorman, back at the station.  
  
My heart shatters.  
  
No. Come back, Lahrri. I have to see you, speak to you again.  
  
The energy fades from my hands. My head slumps against the glass. I remain there for what seems like months.  
  
"You!"  
  
The voice is to my back. I do not know if they are talking to me, and I'm not really in a mood to converse, so I don't reply.  
  
"You are Mylandah Walder, aren't you?"  
  
I raise my head and face the person demanding my attention.  
  
There is a man in his thirties there, a corporate type by his clothing. Neither is he alone; in all, there are ten people watching me, and none of them seem happy.  
  
I've had several confrontations since I returned to Earth, but most of them were in the first two months. As the police were keeping an eye on me for the purpose of preventing any 'incidents', none of them became outright attacks, although a few came close (the inevitable result, though, was that I was ordered to leave the area). As more time elapsed, there were fewer confrontations - the memory of my 'disgraceful conduct' began to become more remote as they found other events to focus on - and most settled for mere snubs or insults made in passing.  
  
"What do you want", I reply, tiredly.  
  
"It is past time for you to account for what you've done", the man says. Everyone else nods their assent.  
  
No use pointing out that any accounting I do should be determined by the courts. This group is clearly not interested in a trial, but.what is it they want?  
  
Public humiliation?  
  
Blood?  
  
They aren't really intimidating, even if they think themselves so. Their stances are unsure, inept. In the shape I'm in now, I could still send half of them in the hospital within minutes, and the rest running in fear.  
  
I think of the image of Lahrri that I saw minutes ago. I remember being sent from the Satellite.  
  
I'll never run against her again.  
  
I'll never run with her again.  
  
Anything this lot can do is insignificant by comparison.  
  
So this group wants my.execution, perhaps? Sorry, but you are too late. I realize now that the order for my execution was given by Headmaster Oldman, when he said "you are hereby expelled".  
  
I stand facing them for a second, then turn and head for the nautical shop. The leader of the group objects. I pay him no attention. I pick up a coil of rope and throw some money on the counter - more than the rope costs, from what I saw - and head to face the crowd.  
  
"So you're going to bring me to account for my crimes? Is that what you're here for?"  
  
My voice carries over the group, over the entire area. I round on the self-appointed 'leader' and put the rope in his hand. With a wave of my hand, I indicate a nearby flagpole.  
  
"Do as you want."  
  
My statement confuses him. Perhaps he is still off-balance from my taking the initiative as well.  
  
The man stammers, "What.are you saying?"  
  
I look straight at him, my voice full of rage.  
  
"You want retribution? In that case, I now give you, all of you, your chance at greatness. Just as you dearly longed for, you can now be remembered as the brave citizens who put an end to the scourge of Mylandah Walder. You have the rope, there is the flagpole, and here." I pull my collar open, "is my neck. All you need do now is make the noose. You want me to suffer for my crimes? End my life. I assure you, I won't try to stop you."  
  
The man's eyes widen in shock. I find myself surprised as well, because as I spoke the words, I realized that I meant them, that I really don't plan to defend myself.  
  
My execution? Oldman saw to that. The would-be vigilantes here can't do anything more to me. The thought crystallizes in my head, as a sense of calm slowly comes over me. I brace myself for their rush.  
  
They do not come. When I look at them, their faces have the same expression as the man who led them. Shock, confusion, uncertainty. I begin to understand. They did not expect it to come to this; now they are at a loss as to what to do. Still, it only requires one spark to get them going again. I wait, unflinching, still making no effort to run or protect myself.  
  
The leader looks at the rope in his hand almost fearfully, aware of the decision he must make. The rest look at him, at each other, at the passerby who have gathered. They then look at me.  
  
They *still* do not act.  
  
Instead, they gaze at me; not a contemptuous gaze, but pitying and mournful. Gradually they begin to back away, then turn and disperse. The man who was leading them now begins to follow the rest, pausing only to drop the rope. With a last glance in my direction, he shakes his head and leaves.  
  
I continue to stand there for a full minute. My life no longer in peril, my only thought is not that I'm safe, but that I have been in some way.cheated.  
  
I shamble over to a nearby bench and slump onto it, drained entirely of energy and will.  
  
  
  
Two hours later, I haven't left the bench. I ought to get back to the hotel, as it'll be nearly time to sign out when I arrive. I cannot seem to push myself off the bench. I merely sit, vaguely aware of my surroundings. I see an elderly woman several meters away looking out at the harbor, making her way along the shops.  
  
"And how are you doing on this wonderful day?"  
  
The voice is to my back; it surprises me - this is what I get for not being aware of what's going on around me.  
  
I whirl around to see a pair of young men looking at me. One of them, slight of build with average height, is studying me nonchalantly. He might be considered attractive by some, if his visage were not so smug - I can feel a sudden and irrational urge to get up and knock his teeth in wash over me, despite my mood.  
  
His compatriot is even less attractive. A bit wider than Smug, but not much, he is also shorter. At least, I think he is, as he is half crouching at the back of his friend, so I'm not sure of his height. His head emerges periodically from over his companion's shoulder to glance at me, smiling - like a jackal watching its prey for any sign of distraction - and an opportunity to strike.  
  
I'm not impressed with either of them, and have no desire to converse with them at all.  
  
"What is it you want," I say, with not even the pretense of civility.  
  
"Us? Why, nothing more than to assist you. You are Mylandah Walder, yes? No, foolish of me to ask. Of course you are. Such a unique face. Such a pleasure to meet you."  
  
I've never liked those who natter on endlessly, and Smug is no exception. Moreover, my suspicions are raised by the phrase 'pleasure to meet you', which I've not heard used in reference to me for months.  
  
Smug seems undeterred by my lack of interest. "I appear to have wandered off the subject", he says, apologetically. "You see, we've come to offer our assistance with one of your current problems."  
  
"What 'problem' might you be referring to?" My reply is only half sarcastic. At present, I have so many problems that I cannot single out any one as first. Except perhaps.  
  
Smug turns to face Jackal, who peeks out at me and smiles before returning to his crouch. "We've heard of your plight in recent months as to finding...residences. And you've also had troubles with the locals, yes?"  
  
With a wave of his hand, he indicates Jackal, who again flashes that same unpleasant smile.  
  
"My companion and I find it intolerable that an athlete of your status has had to suffer so. Therefore, we would like to make an offer that will be mutually beneficial."  
  
I inhale sharply, almost a hiss of air. My eyes narrow. As much as my depression has made me oblivious to most of the outside world, the implication of his statement is not lost on me. I do not speak, however; I wait for him to verify my suspicions.  
  
"You see, we are in possession of a house, a modest one, yes, but well insulated and reasonably provisioned - just the sort a woman of your athletic prowess could use to keep yourself fit.unlike that place you are staying at now."  
  
I keep my voice even and restrained, with effort. "And just how would you know where I'm staying?"  
  
Smug waves his hand dismissively. "Some of the customers of that hotel have been commenting on you as they go about their rounds. Open air talk, really. But I know of this hotel. A contemptible, wretched business. Nothing that is suitable for one of your stature."  
  
Privately, I agree with him. I don't really think that hotel was suitable for *anyone*, but it was at least livable. The realization strikes me that I have to hurry back there for the rest of my possessions.  
  
I stand up and face the two. "Sorry, but I don't have much money at present, so I'm sure I couldn't afford whatever you want for a room." A blatant untruth. It's likely that I could afford a place far more luxurious than they have for years on end, if money was all it took for me to rent one. However, I'm hoping the statement will cause them to lose interest - unless, that is.  
  
Smug talks casually, as if about a deal already concluded. "Money is not necessary. I'll be concise, Ms. Walder. You are in need of a semi- permanent residence, if I'm not mistaken, and we could use a.might I say, companion. I believe we can assist each other here. Now, we've offered our spare room to others who have fallen on misfortune, without asking for any monetary recompense. We ask merely that you would be.available on occasion to perform certain duties."  
  
I fight to keep the astonishment from my face. Even though I was nearly certain of what his offer would be, I doubted he would actually say it. At his back, Jackal pokes his head out to look at me again, his smile now an outright leer. I shake my head in disbelief at their brashness.  
  
"And what makes you think I would in any way *consider* such an offer? If you want some concubine or escort, I'm sure there are many around for the asking. Now leave - you have overstayed your welcome."  
  
Smug seems neither offended or dissuaded in the slightest. "I'd think on the offer a second time if I were you. It is not difficult to see that you are having trouble both finding and keeping a room, Ms. Walder, and with more and more people aware that you are currently in town, there will be less chance than ever of you finding accommodation. As you must also recognize, the period of fair weather is nearly over. Exposure is not a pleasant experience, especially on the Channel coast; someone of your stature should not have to go through such suffering."  
  
My eyes go cold, my jaw tight. Not from anger, but fear of the words he has just spoken; being out in the cold nights has been increasingly worrying me, a growing shadow at the back of my thoughts. I attempt to keep my emotions from showing on my face.  
  
"I think I would be able to find a place to stay without having to pay such a price as you ask. Now if you'll excuse me-" I give them my iciest tone, in the hope that it will deflate them.  
  
Smug isn't even mildly offended. "If that is your response, then we'll be on our way - for now. Come, my friend, this woman does not seem to appreciate our offer. Perhaps a few days in the open will change her view on matters." He turns to leave, his associate bounding ahead of him.  
  
Then he stops, briefly, to look over his shoulder. "You ought to have accepted. You do not have a great many options. And, when you come to us for assistance, we will be nothing like this generous."  
  
They disappear into the distance, as I stare after them. I find myself shaking, as his words play again and again in my head. For all his unrivalled cheek, for all the determination with which I refused him, a dark thought keeps pushing into my consciousness.  
  
What if he's right? What if I cannot face the thought of exposure, of cold and rain? I've gone through athletic camp, learned to live in hostile conditions, but I've never experienced anything like this - being ignored and rejected by so many for so long - and the strain is more than I'm able to tolerate. I tell myself that no matter what, I'll never agree to terms like those Smug gave me, but my inner voice carries a conviction less than complete, like a small crevice in a foundation that eventually causes the building to collapse.  
  
The wind whips around me, stinging my face with razors of cold.  
  
I won't give in to that kind.  
  
I won't.  
  
Please let me not give in to them.  
  
  
  
I arrive barely in time to get my effects from the hotel. The manager is once again apologetic about the circumstances. I actually thank him for his trouble; most of those I have come in contact with haven't worried themselves a great deal on my account, if at all. As I leave, he mentions that there are a number of boarding houses near the harbor, in the area I recently searched. While I'm not enthused about returning there, the only other choice is to leave the city by an off hours plane or bus to another (city? country?) with no assured room *there*.  
  
In spite of my misgivings, I hurry back to the harbor. It's getting dark, and I'd like to get a room (if I *can* get a room) before night has completely fallen. I finger my cloak tentatively; it can fold out to make an insulated cocoon, enough to sleep in; I wonder if I'll have to make use of it.  
  
I search the area for boarding houses. The first two have 'No Vacancy' signs up. With my fortunes, the first available one will be owned by a member of that group that nearly attacked me earlier.  
  
There are lights coming from the ships in the Channel. Another time I might have stopped to look at them. Now I've not the leisure. Perhaps if I'm discreet, I can get the location of a boarding house from a local. Not many about, though. Most are no doubt home by now.  
  
For the second time today, someone has surprised me. "You are lost, yes?"  
  
I whirl around to face the speaker, even as it occurs that the voice is not that of Smug - to my relief. I find instead a matronly woman with a wistful expression; slowly I remember seeing her earlier in this area when I was confronted with the group of outraged citizens. I recall vaguely that this woman did not join them, that she merely watched from a distance.  
  
Not that I'm not still suspicious; I've had enough incidents today that I'm not turning my back on *anyone*.  
  
"You ought to get inside," she says, "weather around this time of year gets rather wild."  
  
As if I haven't been trying to get 'inside' for three days now.  
  
"Yes," I reply, keeping any sarcasm from my voice, "I'll do that. You wouldn't know of any boarding houses in the area, would you?"  
  
"Yes, there are several, most of them are full, however. If someone did want a room, though, I've a spare - a loft, really. Might you be inclined to rent it for awhile?"  
  
All at once, I'm confused, relieved, and suspicious. While any offer of a room is appreciated, she must know that housing me could be the cause of many problems. And she is offering it openly, without hostility? This is too convenient.  
  
My reservations must be written on my face. "You are wondering why I would offer a room to you, given your reputation. You are obviously leery of my generosity. That is understandable, and quite wise," she says, not looking remotely irritated at my wary stance. "However, I ought to make clear that I'm assuming that you can pay for it - at about three times its regular cost."  
  
She pauses briefly. "If that sounds unreasonable to you, I'll explain. You are from a relatively wealthy family. When they.evicted you, I saw a few news items about you being refused entry at some of the wealthier hotels in Paris. That inclines me to think that you have financial stability - even if no one is disposed to accept your money at present."  
  
She looks off to the harbor. "I, conversely, have not the finances for some expansions to my home I was planning on. The rate I'm giving you - if you accept - is enough for me to get those expansions, with some cash remaining. You will forgive me for being blunt, but I want you to know the reasons I'm making you this offer. At the least, you could come and look the place over before you make a decision."  
  
As much as I'd like to investigate this thoroughly, this is the closest I've come to a respectable offer today. I have to prevent myself from physically jumping at the prospect. I'm not completely sure of her reasons; it's just that my remaining options are neither pleasant nor promising. But first, I must make one inquiry.  
  
"Aren't you worried? About renting to me?"  
  
"Slightly concerned, which is why I asked you now. Most everyone's inside, or heading inside. I think you've learned discretion by now. So, if you'll draw your cloak tight, we can get on our way."  
  
Following her suggestion, I cover as much of my face as I can. She goes to a street that runs roughly along the harbor, and I keep pace. Our path changes two or three times. I nervously map the area in my head. The wind intermittently strikes me in the face. At length, we come to a drab series of houses. She looks around, to see if anyone seems to have too much interest in us, but the streets here are empty. I find myself standing at an unassuming house not far from a street corner. She opens the door almost soundlessly, and enters. I warily watch the entrance for a few seconds, senses alert for any sign of ambush. As I can find none, I go in after her.  
  
The inside of the woman's home is sparsely furnished, clean, unremarkable. I accustom myself to the view. She waits only a minute before indicating the way to the loft. We climb a ladder that hasn't been dusted in a while. The loft itself is cramped, musty, with straw covering sections of the floor.  
  
It is also heated, which renders any other flaw irrelevant. The room could be considered.cozy, really. The woman points out a mattress; I resist my inclination to fall on it and sleep at once. Instead, I ask what she wants for the loft. She names a price that is absurdly expensive for this kind of accommodation. I agree to it.  
  
Not as if I feel I'm being gouged. If the amount she is asking is far too much for such average quarters, it is still much less than I was ready to pay for a room in the more wealthy hotels I originally wanted. With my financial assets, I could remain here for decades, if it was feasible. Inflated prices are nothing new to me, either. Most of the rooms I've been in have cost me much more than the price displayed. I suppose it was, in some cases, their way of expressing their distaste for me, to compel me to pay more than I ought to. Most likely, it was a mere case of profiteering - they saw a way to get extra cash, knowing that I had no choice but to pay it.  
  
I'm not complaining, as it's been of assistance in getting me the few rooms I've stayed in. The affluent places have unanimously refused my money; so the only areas I've gotten accepted at are those either indifferent to the Great Competition, or those too impoverished to worry where their money comes from.  
  
I set my duffel bag on the floor. She tells me that she can make dinner if I want, and that's she has some cheesecake available. Much as I'd like dinner, I *really* want to sleep, and I say as much. She offers to bring some anyway, and leaves.  
  
I place my cloak next to the bed. I still don't want my dagger too far away. With everything that's happened during the day now catching up to me, I'm only able to keep my eyes open with effort. As I'm still unsure about her, I make a note to sleep lightly.  
  
I shake myself alert as she enters with a dish, upon which is a metal cover. She sets it on a crate near me, tells me where the washroom is, and asks if I require anything else. I nod my head, and she leaves.  
  
I gaze at the dish, and remove the cover. A wonderful aroma wafts up from the plate. Not that I've much experience with desserts - I did not allow myself such during training - but this seems a delight. Then again, considering the kinds of food I've been subsisting on as of late, that may not be saying much.  
  
My fingers grasp the fork sitting next to the cheesecake. I gouge a generous piece from it, as if I hadn't eaten in days, and bring the fork up -  
  
And the fork halts short of my mouth. A suspicion enters my thoughts. Poison? I might have considered such an idea paranoid months ago, but now.I sniff at the cheesecake again, trying to detect anything odd, and find no indication that there is.  
  
Not that I'd really know what to check for. With my stomach protesting the denial of the food which is so close, a conflict between safety and hunger arises.  
  
For all I'm able to tell, there could be poison in it.  
  
I decide shortly that I don't care. If this is a final dinner, one could do worse. I try the section already on the fork. This is.even better than I thought. My remaining reservations are shunted aside as I attack the rest of dessert.  
  
Some time after, there is only a sliver of the cheesecake remaining. I rest against the wall, eyes half-closed in ecstasy, breathing heavily. I see my reflection in a mirror, half concealed by the boxes. I smile; my face looks as if I've just been on my honeymoon. I don't believe that I've eaten nearly an entire cheesecake. More, I've never done anything so uninhibited, so spontaneous in my life.  
  
I cover the dish and stand to do my exercises. I look at the bed, and reconsider. My exercises can wait. I crawl onto the blanket, a heavy one, precisely what I need. I just manage to pull it over myself as I'm nodding off.  
  
For the first time in what seems like years, I sleep soundly and well.  
  
  
  
Notes: This is a 'retrospective in miniature', basically to give some concept of what Mylandah's first weeks on Earth were like when she returned from the Satellite. While the amount of confrontations with hostile citizens has dropped to almost none over time, there is the sporadic incident. As for 'Smug' and 'Jackal', they are representative of what are known as 'chickenhawks'. As I understand it, they linger around train or bus terminals, waiting for naïve, lost, or desperate girls (generally), who they offer a food and a place to stay. At a later time, they begin to ask 'payment'. Since these girls have little in the way of money, they are faced with prostitution or being thrown out. Smug and Jackal do not wait around train station or bus depots, they just walk around the city, looking for prospects; in most other respects, they're identical. 


	5. Closure and Openings

Pariah  
  
by Vosburg  
  
Part Five: Closures and Openings  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: No, still don't own Battle Athletes.  
  
  
  
I open my eyes to unfamiliar surroundings, vague shapes visible in the light that enters through the shutters of the window. In a haze of confusion, my hand goes to my cloak, spastically seeking my dagger, before I remember that this is the loft that I rented last night.  
  
Once I accustom myself to the view, and calm myself somewhat, I stand up slowly and give the area a more thorough going over. I ought to have done this last night, but fatigue was clouding my reason.  
  
Not that it's proven my undoing. No one's come in to slash my throat, the cheesecake wasn't poisoned, for once I feel half decent in the morning.  
  
"Ms. Walder? Are you well? Would you like breakfast?"  
  
I whirl to face the trapdoor, before I recognize the voice of the woman who owns this house. I've been more nervous than usual lately, not surprising considering events. I compose myself and open the door.  
  
The woman looks concerned. "You seem alright. However, since you didn't come out for breakfast, and lunch is almost ready, I began to get concerned."  
  
This surprises me. "Lunch?"  
  
"Well, yes. I serve lunch early, for this area anyway, before the midday bell, in about fifteen minutes, and."  
  
"Fif.it's almost *noon*?" I shake my head; I've been asleep for twelve *hours*?  
  
"Not surprising," she says, somewhat more at ease now, "considering you've likely been through a lot in the past few days, from the looks of you. Give me three minutes, and I'll get a plate ready for you."  
  
I give the woman a brief 'thanks', but she is already retreating to the stairs. I turn back to my duffel bag, and get ready to shower.  
  
Not long after, I'm in the kitchen, still rubbing my eyes from last night. Having slept so well, I was sorely tempted to return to bed. The rational section in my head says I've been in bed far too long; another section, just as logical, says that I have yet to recoup all the sleep I've missed out on for one reason or another.  
  
The kitchen is really quite rustic in appearance, something one might expect to find out in a remote country inn. Now that I think of it, most of the house is in the same style, except for two locations (including the loft) which look as if they've fallen into disuse. The aromas of newly cut wood, waffles, and hot syrup fill the air. I barely keep from salivating openly - it's been so long since I've experienced such pleasant scents.  
  
The woman busies herself around the room, preparing lunch. As she sets some dishes and glasses in front of me, she introduces herself as Gabrielle. I must concentrate to listen to her and not watch all the food on the table.  
  
"Well, go ahead," she says, indicating the plate. "Obviously, you are just straining at the bit to have lunch," she says, smiling.  
  
I avert my eyes in embarrassment. Not that what she says is false; however, the statement illuminates my complete lack of manners. Even in my current state, I should conduct myself with some sort of restraint.  
  
"I'm sorry, thank you for th - for everything you've done. I must seem ungrateful," I say, thinking that this is one of the few times I've ever apologized for being ungrateful.  
  
She nods, silently, not offended at all. With consummate ineptitude, I try to make conversation.and that is rare for me as well.  
  
"You.are here by yourself? This seems like a strain for one person to keep in order."  
  
"At times," she replies, "there are periods of surplus and there are periods of rationing. As you can tell, this is one of the 'ration' times. Which is the reason, in part, that you are here."  
  
I incline my head in curiosity, between bites of waffles and dashes of orange juice (fresh juice too - my eyes water in delight - I realize also that my emotions are closer to the surface as of late).  
  
"You, Ms. Walder, are going to ease some of my financial troubles by staying here. While the price for the loft I gave you last night might seem nearly insignificant to you, as compared to some of the places you've been at before, to me it represents the best part of the money I require to repair and improve my place. I'd like to make it a sort of 'cozy inn by the sea', or somesuch. Although I suppose this doesn't really sound interesting to you."  
  
I turn from my lunch to face her directly. For the first time, it strikes me that this does really fascinate me, and that it would not have a while ago. Before I arrived on the Satellite, I never thought that anyone like Gabrielle might have dreams of their own; much less would it have mattered. For me, it's been a major revelation to understand that others have goals and wants that they believe in as passionately as I did (do?). And for all the expense and pain involved, I can't say that *this* lesson is one I regret.  
  
Oddly enough, my new perspective on others hasn't changed my old perspective on one person: Lahrri. I see now that in a way, she was an addiction, a feverish desire that I would do anything for. Despite knowing this, that desire continues. As they say, it's one thing to realize you have an addiction, but quite another to truly suppress it.  
  
It occurs to me that my thoughts have strayed, and Gabrielle is no doubt curious as to why I'm staring at her.  
  
"That's not true," I say, "this would make a pleasant bed and breakfast, at least *I've* found it so - but I might be biased." My voice falters. I meant for that to come out as a compliment, but it didn't sound much like one.  
  
Not that I've much experience in complimenting others.  
  
She doesn't take offense. "Once I get the renovations done, this will be quite a 'looker', so to speak."  
  
I remember a statement she made earlier. "You said that you gave me the loft because I had money, but you also said there was.another reason?"  
  
"Yes, there was. I wander among the harborfront shops often, and as it happened, I saw you twice last evening. One of those times was when you were in the company of a pair of rather dubious young men."  
  
The memory comes back to me instantly, souring my lunch. I see clearly the faces of the ones I had dubbed Smug and Jackal, leering visages; I shake my head in an unsuccessful attempt to dispel the images.  
  
Gabrielle speaks again. "I see you recall them. You are not the first they have propositioned. They make a point of nosing around for women who are in.less than desirable circumstances and offering them 'shelter' in exchange for. well, you know their price. I saw that you had refused them, but, when they left, I thought for a minute that I saw you waver. When you left shortly after, I wasn't sure if you had given in to them."  
  
"No, I was not *that* desperate.yet," I reply, with less confidence in my voice than I'd like - that particular memory of last night surfaces with unsettling clarity. "I returned to my hotel. It was time for me to.well, the manager said I had to leave today, so I had to go back for my possessions."  
  
"What a relief. You see, after you left, I was thinking about your dilemma. However I might disagree with your actions on the Satellite Academy, no one ought to have to suffer through what they planned for you. I think I'd have given you the loft, for a short while anyway, just to keep you out of their hands. I just couldn't believe that you deserved anything like that."  
  
"I wonder if anyone else thinks that. I've gotten the impression that the public thinks that there *is* no humiliation that I should not have to endure."  
  
"Despicable," she says.  
  
"Um?" Not an articulate reply, but I've been off my game as of late.  
  
"Ms. Walder, I don't really know why you did what you did, and I can't say that I was happy about it either. However, just because some citizens felt some degree of embarrassment doesn't justify subjecting you to any debasement that comes into their head, nor does it exonerate their descending to barbarity in the name of 'just revenge'."  
  
I say nothing, but my smile is the embodiment of gratitude. It's one of the few times I've smiled recently.  
  
"About the loft.thank you for allowing me to -"  
  
"Don't worry. As I said, there are certain acts I won't commit for the sake of retribution. Financially cutting my own throat is one of them. I imagine you've been turned away even by some inns that haven't been doing too well, merely because of their distaste for you?"  
  
I nod my head. That's happened more times than it's comfortable for me to remember.  
  
"Yes, well.they might have the luxury to do such, I don't. Not that I'd rent to someone I *really* had a problem with, but that would likely be because I knew them personally. As for you, in person you don't seem such an unsavory sort."  
  
"I.I've been through much as of late, as you said earlier. And while I don't think of myself as unlikable, since I've come back to Earth, I've.sort of had reason to see my actions from a different perspective."  
  
"In my opinion, everyone ought to do that from time to time." She shakes her head, as if recalling something. "Oh, but here I'm sitting, nattering on and interrupting your lunch. Well, I can at least let you finish eating in peace."  
  
She gets up to leave, then stops to give me the regular mealtimes for the house, instructions on where to leave my laundry, and various other items of interest. She then walks out, her thoughts seemingly miles away.  
  
I wouldn't have objected to her staying. It's been so long since I had company during a meal - not that I made a point of eating with others, but now.  
  
Now I'm alone with my thoughts. A solid night's sleep and some wholesome food has brightened my mood considerably. Yet, a nettlesome question refuses to go away:  
  
What now?  
  
That is, now that I seem to have a residence (for the present; I don't delude myself that this is a long-term arrangement) and no longer need to frequent restaurants that are generally mediocre, what ought I to do with myself? The various academies are still no more disposed to accept my application, and my reputation remains in the sewer.  
  
I head back to my room. After familiarizing myself with the loft a bit - as I didn't really get a decent look last night, I begin my exercises. In my improved mood, I find that I've much more energy.  
  
I haven't come up with an answer to where I should go from here, though.  
  
I complete my exercises and sit on the bed, trying to think which path I should follow. I incline my head as I hear Gabrielle climbing the ladder to the loft. She calls out in case I'm unprepared, then her head appears.  
  
"Ms. Walder? I don't like saying this, but please use your discretion when entering and leaving. While I have no objection to your remaining here, I don't think either of us needs any trouble with the local citizenry. Sorry for being so blatant, but."  
  
"Don't worry, it's only reasonable that you would be concerned," I reply; I see that her expression is one of nervousness, it's the first time I've seen such on her face. "And we are in agreement that any trouble is not to my benefit, or yours."  
  
"Well, thank you. Again, I'm sorry-"  
  
"Gabrielle."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I'm not mad, really. And call me Mylandah."  
  
She nods, apparently reassured, and goes back down the ladder.  
  
As she does, I consider my simple statement with fascination. It seems so trivial, yet a year ago, I would never have considered allowing someone like Gabrielle to refer to me in such a familiar way.  
  
However, we are now housemates. No, more than that, we are symbiotic. I provide capital she requires, and she provides me with a shelter from the inhospitable outside. I'm nearly certain that I've gotten the better deal.  
  
I consider her words as well. However gentle, she's pointed out that I must continue to watch myself, remain on guard. I look at my cloak. With the inclement weather, I've an excuse for holding it tightly around my face, so I'm all right there. I think I'll time my activities so that they begin before morning and end at dusk, so there shouldn't be many around for my departures and arrivals. Perhaps I ought to get some new clothes - too much time in the same outfits could make me easy to trace when I'm discovered (Not if - when. I have no delusions that someone will eventually spot me - the only choice I have is to delay that as long as I can). The trouble is that buying new clothes requires that I show myself at the store, which means at least one person will recognize me, and having sold me the clothes, will know what I'll be wearing.  
  
A thought comes to me, one that might solve some of my vexations, at least. I examine it for flaws, then head downstairs to discuss it with Gabrielle.  
  
By night, I have a pair of new outfits, and she's made a bit of extra money. With the cover story of a 'slightly infirm tenant', she's gotten me some new clothes; drab, loose fitting, and just what I require not to attract attention.  
  
I discuss plans with her over dinner. There are other items to purchase, and I offer rates - over what I'm paying in rent - for her to buy them for me. After I'm assured that she won't be straining herself too much, the bargain is set.  
  
For the second consecutive night, I sleep soundly. Going downstairs to eat is now one of the most anticipated times of the day. I continue exercising, even if I must make myself - with so much wonderful food around, it's an effort to get going on my physical training. I think on my time at the Satellite, when I had nothing but contempt for those who let their desire for food get the best of them. The memory makes me recoil slightly.  
  
I've not gone outside since I've come to this place. But that's only because I need to recover myself after the past week. And with a comfortable mattress (for once!) and food I actually *want* to eat, it isn't surprising that I haven't been hurrying to get away from the loft. Besides, now that I've been able to 'dress my wounds', I can go out at any time and.  
  
I halt, the thought dropping off to a whisper. The idea of going out is.unsettling. When I remember the weather, the glares of the public, the countless incidents of disrespect, the prospect of facing them again is.  
  
Sidestepping the implications of that line of thinking, for the third time I sleep, without going outside.  
  
The third day of my stay, I'm on my way to breakfast. Gabrielle is at the table, looking rather serious.  
  
Again entranced by the food on my plate (omelettes and crepes - am I dreaming this?), I'm only half paying attention. I've gone through most of the crepes before the expression on her face registers.  
  
"Is there anything.amiss?" I ask this out of curiosity, as I cannot think of what I might have done to offend her.  
  
"Are you feeling all right?"  
  
"I haven't been this energized in months. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Nothing, that is.forget I said it."  
  
Sensing that I know the problem, I open the dialogue myself.  
  
"Don't worry, I'm just staying in until I get myself straight again - recoup some lost sleep, resume my exercise patterns, then I'll get back to work.such as it is"  
  
As I speak, I see instantly that the statement is false, but at first I don't know why. For some reason the thought of going outside makes me recoil.  
  
Suddenly I know. The reason comes from my subconscious, refusing to remain silent.  
  
I'm scared.  
  
Rarely have I used that phrase in my life. But that is the only logical answer. After two days of decent sleep, decent food, and above all, decent treatment, even thinking of stepping into a city (more accurately, country) of hostile people is unbearable.  
  
"Ms. Walder.Mylandah," Gabrielle says, slowly, "if this is what you want, to remain here, I won't contest the point with you. But, while I generally don't make a point of suggesting how my guests ought to conduct their lives, in this case, I hope you won't be offended if this is an exception. Although, it must seem imprudent of me to say as much to someone who is paying me so well."  
  
I recognize that she is asking if I want her to continue, in a circumspect manner. I nod for her to do so. I see also that she is making an effort to use my first name. My mother would go spastic if she knew I had allowed someone like Gabrielle to refer to me like that, even now; she would never think of Gabrielle as other than a servant.  
  
"I don't think it will benefit you to remain inside indefinitely. For the first two days, I could understand - you had to rest, clear your head, get back to yourself. But now, you - and forgive me again if I'm being insolent here - seem to have begun to closet yourself in the loft. The reason I breach this matter now is to prevent you from postponing it indefinitely.it will be more demanding to go outside the longer you wait."  
  
I gaze at the plate, not meeting her eyes. "Gabrielle, in my head I know that you are right, but.what's the point? Most everyone is not friendly to me, if not openly hostile. I've nearly no prospect of getting back into one of the training academies, and I've really no thoughts as to what else I could do. You say there is no benefit to remaining inside, but I ask you, what could it benefit me to go *outside*?"  
  
She does not reply at once, and for a second I have the odd feeling that she did not hear me, although she must have.  
  
"I don't believe you really want to stay inside."  
  
I look at her in confusion.  
  
She goes on. "News is at times not easy to avoid, even if you're not particularly interested in hearing it. At the time of your 'dismissal' from the Satellite, there were many lengthy stories about this or that aspect of the race you had.interfered with. One of these aspects that I found odd was that you had not interfered for your own benefit, but for another athlete."  
  
I shiver slightly. The image of Lahrri's face seems almost to coalesce in front of me.  
  
Gabrielle seems to hesitate at the thought of saying more. But then, I see a slow look of determination cross her face. She conquers whatever doubts were troubling her, and continues.  
  
"If someone were to risk their reputation and honor for another knowing the consequences if they were caught, this suggests that they must have strong feelings for the person for whom they intervened. While I do not know exactly *what* those feelings were, that they would inspire you to do such says that she meant much to you."  
  
She gazes at me, as if she thinks I already know what she is about to say. What is odd is that, in a way, I think I do.  
  
"What I think is that you have not resolved those feelings - and until you do, you won't be able to go on with your life, no matter what you eventually decide to do. How you will do it I don't know, but you must clear this obstacle before you can accomplish anything. As I said, this isn't really my concern - perhaps that's why I've not made a great amount of money, being overly interested in my tenants' lives - but I don't want you to spend the remainder of your life in some kind of stasis, always stuck at one point in your past."  
  
Gabrielle's voice drops off then, as if she feels she's overreached her boundaries. She excuses herself clumsily and leaves.  
  
She likely thinks I was going to disagree with her. I do not, and I cannot; what she said is so blatantly true that contesting it would be like contesting the existence of the knife I cut my breakfast with: I can say it's not there all I want, but if I cut myself with it, there will still be blood.  
  
With the point of her speech so unassailable, my only remaining option is to determine what I'm going to do about it.  
  
She's right; I've got to see Lahrri again. The nonsense of the statement does not faze me; that I haven't the remotest concept of how I'm going to get back to the Satellite Academy is irrelevant.  
  
Which is just as well, as no thoughts come to me on that matter. I return to the loft, sitting on one of the crates strewn about. I find no answer to my problems. For no real reason, I look around at the loft again.  
  
My gaze falls on a small mirror. I found it earlier while acquainting myself with the surroundings.  
  
The past few days have been a healing experience for me in several ways. With the assistance of the mirror, I've properly seen to some blemishes on my face that have gone untreated for some time. Since I've finally gotten some ointments (thanks to Gabrielle), I've also relieved myself of the chafing near my waist, and not a minute too soon.  
  
However, now I just look at my face in the mirror. While I appreciate that I now look closer to my age, and not Gabrielle's, my face is still unwelcome most anywhere I go. Being in the spotlight for so long is no longer beneficial when you fall from the public favor. My face is.  
  
My face.  
  
My eyes narrow. A whisper of a thought comes to me. The angles and lines of my face sharpen in the mirror as the thought shapes and clears in my head.  
  
Even as it comes into focus, I realize my plan is nothing but desperation. There are so many ways for the plan to go wrong that it almost brings me to despair.  
  
However, I continue to shape it. There is little choice.  
  
This is the only plan I have.  
  
  
  
Many hours have gone by. I'm still in the loft; however this time it's not from fear of going outside. I promise Gabrielle that I'll go out tomorrow. Now, however, I've been constantly at my laptop, sending an avalanche of emails. I've also been on Gabrielle's vidscreen several times. I'm using every favor I'm owed, any influence I have remaining. Many of those I speak with have the 'I rather hoped not to see you again' expression on their faces. Some are, putting it mildly, reluctant to speak with me - it is fortunate that I inherited from my mother the trait of having a secret or two to hold over their heads. Nothing like the threat of having old blunders brought to light to make someone more agreeable.  
  
My family's financial counselors are first. I have the least trouble with them, as they continue to manage my funds, irrespective of my relations with my family. I shift my funds into some 'unlisted' accounts - in small amounts at first, as I must make sure I can access them.  
  
Next come a series of family associates: Doctors, in-home teachers, clothiers. The queries I make are innocuous, as I must give no inkling of my plans. Some of them do not hide their contempt, and make it known that they are only speaking with me on the understanding that I won't contact them again. The process is much like wading through deep sand. Yet, at some length, I find most of what I'm seeking.  
  
By the time I go to bed, my plan is nearly complete.  
  
  
  
  
  
The next day, I'm up early. I tell Gabrielle that I won't have time to eat. She insists on giving me some fruit and bread in a small pack. At first I demur, but then I remember what I was eating before, and accept the rations. When I get to the door, the fear of facing people again brings me to a halt. I have to brace myself three times before I finally push myself outside.  
  
The weather is still as it was when I arrived, wind continues to fling debris about the streets, and the air, if not frigid, is cold enough. Even with my cloak, I have to accustom myself to it, after so much time in the warmth of the loft. As it is before dawn, the streets are almost empty; just how I want it. After noting prominent features of the area (it wouldn't do if I were unable to find my way back), I head for a shuttle going to Paris. This involves some risk, as I have to show identification for my ticket, but I cannot avoid it. Luckily, the agent does not spread the news around, and I get to Paris with nothing more than some glares from the other passengers.  
  
As unobtrusively as I can, I make my way through the districts. The various items I ordered on my laptop the previous day I now retrieve and stuff into a musty leather backpack that was in the loft. Since I've no doubt that some of the shopowners will speak of my purchases, I've asked for many items that are extraneous, to throw them off my scent. If my plan is to stand even the remote chance of working that it has, it's imperative that no one know what I'm about to do.  
  
My journey through the city is uneventful, for which I'm grateful. The unassuming clothes that Gabrielle purchased for me work as well as I could hope; no one stops to examine their owner too closely. After carrying the leather pack around, as it's weight grows steadily, I halt for lunch. Reflexively, I look for a sparsely occupied café, before I remember Gabrielle's rations. I find the most deserted spot I can before I eat.  
  
I eat perhaps faster than I ought to, but to remain here any longer than necessary is to ask for someone to recognize me, and I've no inclination to push whatever luck I have. I'm nearly ready to leave when I see some of the locals begin to appear at various places along the street. I restrain myself from slapping my head with my hand - even if I deserve it. I had lunch at the same time as everyone else; of course the streets would be filling with those on their way to and from the various diners. I pull the collar of my jacket over as much of my face as I can, even though it's warmer in Paris than it was in Boulogne. No one is paying attention, though, and I nearly sigh in relief. I'll wait a couple of minutes, then amble away.  
  
As I wait, I hear pieces of conversation from those meandering past. Most of it is irrelevant to me; I'm about to leave when two young men, college types from the look of it, come by.  
  
I pull my collar up and turn my head, hoping they haven't spotted me yet. My worries are unfounded; they are engaged in lively discussion. I catch sections of their conversation; they are talking about some northern suburb of the city, and how it is now rather disreputable. Not the kind of area you ought to wander around by yourself.  
  
The pair amble off. I remain sitting for a minute, then slowly exit the area. I recall now that in one of my emails I asked about a service which was precisely in that disreputable suburb - one that I must make use of. I find a semi-private spot and check my laptop. The reply states that the service I wanted is available, but won't be for long - not surprising. There is also a list of terms. I reply that they are acceptable; I will need to check my mail at frequent intervals today, as if my go-between is able to arrange a meeting, I won't have much time to spare.  
  
Many might be surprised that I would know how to reach such shady individuals, but my mother's business deals periodically involved such types. I found some links to others of this ilk on my own later on, when I ran across the 'secrets' certain associates of my family had, secrets that have allowed me such leverage over the past two days. Odd, however - while I wanted to use the secrets as potential leverage, I never believed that I'd be using that leverage to arrange a meeting with the 'disreputable types' myself.  
  
My mail checks begin at half hour intervals. As the day passes and evening nears, the intervals wither to fifteen minutes. Just as the sky is turning orange from sunset, I see the reply. I'm relieved and fearful at the same time.  
  
My go-between says that I'm to show up at an abandoned shop, gives me directions, and stresses that I have to arrive before 9:00. Naturally, as I reason that whoever is there doesn't stay in one place for long. As much as I'd rather not, I head north, after getting a cab whose driver apparently doesn't know or care about my identity.  
  
With two hours to spare, we are outside the suburb. Even at a distance, it is unsavory, bringing to memory some of the more repulsive motels I've been at.  
  
The driver refuses to continue. Wonderful.  
  
Perhaps in my past, I would have plunged ahead without hesitating, defying any of the locals to interfere with me. Now, I have to stiffen my resolve just to enter. I feel for my dagger, and make sure I can get to it easily. I pull my cloak from the pack, wrap it around myself, hoping it makes me look ominous, and set off. If conditions allowed, I would have gone back to Boulogne to drop the backpack off, then returned here without the extraneous weight. However, to travel is to risk being identified, so I have to get everything done on this journey.  
  
I stride through the area; it doesn't do to look lost in places like this. I memorized the path to the shop during the ride, but I'm not sure I can find the reference points in the fading light. I experience two incidents of near panic when I cannot find the reference points the map referred to. After backtracking a bit, I find my way again. Small packs of locals mill about, or lounge about on the streets; fortunately, most are casting belligerent glances at each other, or clouded in alcoholic stupor, to pay attention to a dull woman in drab clothes. I still have enough of a cold gaze in my crimson eyes to deter the remainder.  
  
When I get close to the location, I slow, looking about before I bound ahead. I spend fifteen minutes dashing from spot to spot, like a thief, trying to remain unseen. Finally, I arrive at an area which seems to resemble my target.  
  
A sign in front of one of the shops says 'Odd Items For Oddballs'; as I near the shop, I see the inexpensive, throwaway flotsam that was the shop's inventory between the iron grates in the front. This is where I'm to meet the person, but I see no one. I glance casually along the street - still nothing. Could the person I came for have decided not to.  
  
"You can't read, or is it you don't know that iron grates in front of a place usually means it's closed?"  
  
I must use all my control to keep from leaping into the air at the sound of the voice. I spin back to the door, where a thick-set man has appeared. I didn't hear him open the door.  
  
"I'm sorry, I heard you had some rare items, and I have brought news of your sister."  
  
That was what I was to say when I met the person.  
  
"You came out here to give me a message about *that* upper-class lackwit? As if I want to hear from *her*?" The man's voice is more strident now, no doubt for the benefit of any inquisitive ears. "Drop it off near the back entrance, and get outta here."  
  
The door crashes shut.  
  
I head for the back entrance, as I was instructed. That was the proper response, even if he embellished it somewhat. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I never got a clear look at his face. The area in the rear of the shop is close; boxes and debris line the alley. I keep alert for an ambush. I'm at the entrance for three seconds when the door opens. The man speaks again; not as strident as earlier, close on a whisper.  
  
"You aren't inside in three seconds, the bargain's off."  
  
The words surprise me. While I know he is trying to get this over as fast as he is able, the thought comes to me that this could easily be a setup. I'd be in an unfamiliar room, alone, with someone I know is disreputable.and this is assuming he doesn't have someone with him.  
  
If I don't do this, however, my entire plan has even less chance of working.and it's a longshot as it is now. I'll just have to remain alert. I plunge through the door, whirling about as soon as I'm on the other side to scan the room.  
  
I see no one else. I whirl again to see the man by the entrance, sliding an iron bolt across the door. My hand is already on my cloak, casually brushing the surface, seeking my dagger.  
  
"Sorry for the abrupt invitation," he says without a trace of sincerity in his voice, "but I don't like attracting attention. There's a chair to your right, so if you'll get settled, we can get this over with."  
  
As I head for the chair, I can make out objects in the dim room. On a counter is a small porcelain container with instruments sticking out, with the case it was brought in beside it. Presently, I detect the smell of antiseptics. Some of it has spilled down the side, staining the counter. Obviously, this was set up in haste, and will disappear just as fast. I tell the 'doctor' that I have the payment, and withdraw it from the pack, my manner innocuous, completely without provocation. I leave it on the floor and back away. After shifting it to the counter, he counts it swiftly, keeping one eye in my direction.  
  
I look again at the man. While his voice sounded strange earlier, I was too preoccupied to pay much attention to it. Now I see that he is wearing a surgical mask, and a stocking over his head. His face is thus indistinct, and his voice distorted. Surgical gloves cover his hands.  
  
"Seems you got a lot of spare time. I don't. You plan to spend the rest of the day reveling in the scenery, or are you going to get on the chair and tell me what you want done?"  
  
I hesitate. While this is not the best time to recall it, I have a perpetual dislike of doctors (and dentists, for that matter). For most of my life, I've mostly been in control of any situation I came across. That aspect of my personality I got from my mother, naturally. As such, I'm uneasy with *not* having control, the superior position, the upper hand. With doctors, however, you often find yourself sitting or prone. While this might be necessary, the thought of being in a disadvantageous position while someone with sharp objects stands over you and does anything they are inclined to do has never found favor with me. I consider it the same as being a defeated opponent lying at the winner's feet. Instinctively, I react against it.  
  
One of the greatest feats of self-restraint I have managed was not breaking my gynecologist's arms when he explained the position I was supposed to assume.  
  
With a visible effort, I lean into the chair. Briefly, I tell the man what I want done. The 'doctor' nods and turns to the porcelain basin. I hear an object swishing around in it. He goes to the shops sink and washes his hands with water from a canteen. I attempt to keep myself steady.  
  
Finally, he finishes, and comes to the chair.  
  
"You want some cognac or anesthetic?"  
  
"No," I reply, "I'd like to remain alert." That is nothing less than truth. Not only do I still not trust him, but I have to go through the streets of this suburb again when I leave, and I do *not* like the thought of doing so with dulled senses. I must endure whatever discomfort there is.  
  
"Your choice. One more safety measure before I get going here."  
  
I blanch as he reveals a pair of straps. "What.are those for?"  
  
"Little prevention device, same as holding someone's arms when you're going to do surgery and you don't have anesthetics. While the pain might make you feel like clawing at anything you can reach, I don't feel like *being* clawed, so."  
  
With practiced ease, the straps are around my wrists, binding them to the arms of the chair.  
  
I want to run away. I have no reason to trust this man. If this is a setup, I've no way to defend myself.  
  
"Right," he says, half to himself. "This is the part where I say 'if you got any reservations about this, now's the time.'"  
  
I ought to say yes. If I have any sanity remaining, I ought to throw him the money I brought and flee from the shop and the suburb and try to think of what was in my head when I came up with this.  
  
However, I merely nod, keeping my face impassive. At least until I see what he's holding. I had thought it was a scalpel, but it is a serrated knife.  
  
My impassive stance falters, and my voice as well. "You aren't going to use that.that is.don't you have a proper instrument."  
  
"You want this cut semi-distinctive, right? Well, this is better than any surgical instrument for that purpose. Don't worry, the scar won't look like anyone else's, I have pride in my work."  
  
That is not reassuring.  
  
The man begins studying my face, peering at it from different angles, like a person studying a sculpture he's working on. An abrupt warning to not twitch is all I get before the knife passes experimentally in front of me, far too close for my liking. The thought occurs to me that even as a criminal, this man might have been as offended as anyone else by what happened on the Satellite - who's to say he does not have a sense of patriotism - and sees this as an opportunity to get even. Conversely, he might just want the money I brought, without having to fulfill his end of the contract.especially if that requires leaving a witness.  
  
Panic rises in me as the knife passes in front of my eyes again. At this range, all it would require is a flick of the wrist, and I'd never know what hit me.  
  
My fear suddenly gives way to memories of my actions on the Satellite. Several of them hurt others. Some were supposed to, but did not for some reason. I wonder if this is where the score is evened.  
  
How ironic, also, that my fate depends on the reliability of a man who doubtless will get several years in prison if he is found by the gendarmes.  
  
At length, he is satisfied with whatever he was thinking about. The knife comes up to just under my right ear. I can't really see the knife, I just feel it, a light pressure on my face.  
  
A hand appears in front of me. I blink in confusion, then attempt to pull away as it seizes my jaw roughly, pulling me around to face the knife. My panic returns many times over. This *was* a setup, after all and I cannot do anything about it.  
  
I've failed.  
  
I see the dull ceiling of the shop, and think of the Satellite Academy beyond, in orbit. She'll never know what happened to me -  
  
One thought, likely the last, bursts into my head:  
  
Lahrri, please think of me. Remember me just once, wherever you are -  
  
The blade comes at me. I feel sudden, great pain as it gouges me under my ear. It weaves it way down my cheek, bringing more pain.  
  
And as abruptly as it began, it pulls away, and I wince as my face begins stinging from the cut. My jaw has not been released from his grasp, and my eyes are beginning to tear. I see through blurry vision that he has picked an object from a pouch at his side. I have just enough time to recognize the surgical thread before the man begins to stitch the cut. I must say that he does have skill; I barely feel the needle as it travels up the wound. The impartial area in my head suddenly realizes that he's done as I ordered, and not cut my throat as I was certain he would.  
  
As he finishes, my eyes focus again, and I haltingly remove my wrists from the straps. I see a sack, held by the man; he places it on my face. The shock of more pain runs through me as the ice in the sack touches my cheek, then subsides as it numbs me. I grasp the sack myself, grateful for its dulling my pain. Relieved that the ordeal is over, I sit for a while, pinning the sack securely to my face.  
  
Shortly, he returns with a dressing, which he applies to the cut. My attention is drawn to the packaging - while the dressing looks clean, the paper pouch it comes from is old, somewhat yellowed. I wonder how long he's had it. Considering what he does, I suppose that he can't really keep his inventory current.  
  
"So, you about back to regular?"  
  
I nod, gently, fearing more pain from the wound, but it has gone to a dull throb; I'm sure that won't be the case for long.  
  
"You got five minutes. Clear your head, get the shakes out of your system. You exit after that, and put as much distance as you can between you and the shop. I'll find my own way out of the area. And since I never trust my customers, I suggest you not 'coincidentally' appear along my route, as I will think that you are associated with the gendarmes, and I won't be so careful about how I use this knife then. You understand?"  
  
I nod again. I'm not eager to meet him again either.  
  
While I brace myself to retrace the path out of the area, he gives directions on changing the dressing, when to remove the stitches, etc. I express thanks for the time allowed for me to recover, even if I could use a great deal more.  
  
"It's not for you, it's for me," he says. "Customers straight out of operation are confused and nervous. They go right outside after that, sometimes they shriek from the pain, run into objects on the street, that makes noise. Noise draws witnesses. So I give them a couple minutes to calm down."  
  
Not knowing how to reply, I keep silent.  
  
Presently, he brings his watch up to his face. "That's about long enough. Time for you to run. You got any more questions, ask now. Once you head away, don't turn around, even to ask directions, 'cause I'll reason you're about to pull some treachery, and come after you. And if you think you can evade me, you won't, as I'm almost certain I know the vicinity better than you do."  
  
I don't reply. I'm already heading for the door, so fast that I almost forget my backpack. Managing to scoop it from the floor, I close it in haste and wait by the door. The man removes the iron bolt, looks outside cautiously, and waves.  
  
"Nobody out. Go."  
  
I'm through the door even faster than I entered. Despite the assurance that the alley is empty, I scan it myself. My feet are already at the jog as I finish the scan; I reach the street, and begin retracing my steps without a glance back.  
  
  
  
  
  
As I make my way out, the pain from the wound returns, though not as intense. I press my hand to my cheek and feel blood, the seepage coming through the bandage. The wound now begins to sting again, making me wince intermittently. The effect is surprisingly beneficial, as I now appear somewhat berserk, and likely infected, to the locals, and am not troubled during my travels.  
  
At length, I reach the point where I entered. Keeping an eye alert for any residents who might be meandering around. I traverse the street that is the border between a more reputable suburb and the one I've just left.  
  
I breathe somewhat easier now. I've still got some ways to go to reach the shuttle. I ought to see a taxi in a short while. I keep alert, as I don't really know this area either. I head for the greatest amount of activity for once, and find that I have reached some sort of mall. I cover my face and walk down a brightly lit street, and mange to find a taxi after some vigorous waving.  
  
The taxi weaves through streets that become more crowded as we approach the city, and once in Paris itself, the driver must change course twice to make headway.  
  
I look in surprise at the time. Sure that it must be after eleven, I find that it's really after nine. The length of my 'operation' felt like weeks. As it strikes me that it's really over, tension floods from me, easing the pain in my cheek.  
  
No one pays me much attention on the shuttle. The passengers are tired after a long day, and the bloody bandage induces the ones who do look to avert their gaze. It also distracts them from looking at my face long enough to identify me.  
  
I get to Boulogne at 11:46. Sleep is the only thought I have, what with spending almost the entire day picking up my purchases, and an 'operation' to boot. I almost nod off as I walk. The wind begins to pick up, the cold air stinging me awake. I return to Gabrielle's home about an hour after midnight.  
  
I lock the door after me, fully planning to go right to sleep. Wait, first I ought to change the dressing. The day's events obviously have dulled my brain as well, if I couldn't remember that.  
  
Gabrielle comes down the hall and sees me.  
  
Mylandah! You're all right? I was worried about.wait, your face! What's happened!"  
  
I come fully awake, realizing that I haven't thought about how to explain my injury to her. What with setting up the 'operation' getting to and from the place, not to mention actually going through it, I didn't devote any time to thinking of how she might react.  
  
The concern in her face demands an answer. I summon part of my old self, deception masking my face.  
  
"It's nothing, really. A risk I've grown accustomed to, these days. A man in one of the shopping districts saw me, became outraged at my presence, and slashed at me before fleeing. I didn't get a solid look at him. Truth is, I'm surprised it hasn't happened before," I say, trying to laugh. This only causes my cheek to hurt again, and the resulting grimace puts paid to my attempt to calm her.  
  
I change tactics. "Gabrielle, it's not that bad, really. I just need some rest, and a change of dressing for my face. If you want, I'll go see someone about it in the morning."  
  
Somewhat appeased by that, she goes off to get bandages for me - but not before insisting I see a doctor she knows. She assures me that he won't reveal my identity; hesitantly I agree. When she returns, she gives me antiseptics, and makes clear that they are only to hold until morning, when this doctor of hers can give me a proper cure for any infection the wound might have given me. When she leaves, it is with great reluctance, the concern in her face quite clear.  
  
Shortly after that, I'm in my loft, the long day over with, and I gingerly position myself on the bed. My face feels much better (she brought me painkillers as well - yet another one I owe you, Gabrielle), but I have to keep it away from the mattress. I find the most comfortable position, and try to sleep.  
  
For the few minutes that I'm awake, the ease with which I told Gabrielle that blatant untruth.irks me in a way. Even if it was to protect her, that I have been dishonest with a woman who has done so much for me.  
  
Not that being dishonest was anything new. For most of my years, speaking the truth has been a matter not of morality, but convenience. If it suited my purposes, I did; if not, I said whatever *would* suit my purposes.  
  
This is different - I feel as if she deserves only my honesty, after all she's done. I determine to apologize in some way, even if she does not know it is an apology.  
  
I remember that I never checked my backpack. Must make sure I have everything I'll need.  
  
*In the morning*, I think, before passing out.  
  
  
  
As agreed, I allow Gabrielle to bring me to her doctor. I insist on covering my face with one hand, ostensibly out of embarrassment from my wound, but really because I don't want him to get a clear view of my features. It doesn't seem to affect him at all, and he only shifts my hand away from the cut. I'm given a shot to prevent any infection, the cut is cleaned again, and I get more stitches. Not many, though; he comments that the person who did the original stitches was quite skilled, and it was the nature of the cut that made some bleeding inevitable. I'm almost speechless, it looks as if my other 'doctor' actually knew what he was doing.  
  
As we leave, the doctor says that I'm to return soon to get the stitches removed. Then he turns to Gabrielle and mentions that she hasn't been by in some time, and that she ought not visit so infrequently. At first I think that this is merely a gentle reprimand from doctor to patient, until I see the wistful look in his face. I still do not understand until she responds by looking nervously at the wall, as if.  
  
So, there's some kind of attraction between the two of them. Even with my bandages, I have to restrain a laugh. I never thought of her having a relationship, but the proof is now in front of me. I cannot think of anyone who deserves it more.  
  
I don't ask her about it back at her house - if she wants to speak of it, she'll do so when she's ready. When lunch is brought out, though, she seems to have a spring in her step that I haven't seen before.  
  
I head up to the loft after lunch. At last I get to see all those items I got yesterday up close. After sifting through the 'decoys', I get to the items I really wanted.  
  
I put on the sunglasses first. Not the effect I wanted.  
  
Next are the eyeglasses, As I don't really require glasses, these are only slight magnification lenses. They'll do.  
  
Makeup. Never been one to use it, but for present purposes, it's necessary. I keep it to a minimum, using only some eye liner.  
  
I remove the sunglasses, and sling my new athletic bag on my shoulder. It's much smaller than I really need, and doesn't hold nearly as much as my duffel bag, but.  
  
When I've assembled the items that I'll use the most, I pack them away in the athletic bag, which goes into the duffel bag. I've removed most of my clothes from it, and they are now suspended from hooks on the wall. This place is becoming like a home.  
  
Unfortunate that it's almost time to leave.  
  
I see Gabrielle's doctor once more, to get the stitches removed. The wound is pretty much healed; the doctor says that half of the cut will fade to a barely visible line; the rest though, will stand out on my face, like a small blood vessel standing out beneath the skin. I manage to look suitably downcast as he says this, even if this is how I'd wanted it to appear.  
  
I head back to the loft, thinking how I've been here for several weeks now - a record. I owe Gabrielle more than I could conceivably repay. I've found a reason to keep going, and I doubt it would have happened without her.  
  
I'm going to miss the food. Despite still being able to pass the physical exams for any training academy, I'm aware that I've gotten slightly.rounder in places. Not that I regret it, as I've not eaten so splendidly in what feels like ages. The excess weight must come off, though. I wince at the thought of the extra exercise that awaits me.  
  
More than that, I have to go because of the danger to Gabrielle. Even if I've not yet had someone identify me, the longer I remain, the more certain it is that someone will connect me to her house. Given the widespread hostility reserved for me, I don't think anyone known to have assisted me will be well thought of. And if she gets just a fraction of the treatment I've gotten.not a pleasant thought at all.  
  
I spend the last two days mostly in the loft, searching Encompass, the communication system that was known in ancient times as the Internet. I've been looking for training academies again, and I believe I've found one. Not particularly highly rated, not many students, it should fit my plans.  
  
That night, I gather my possessions in my duffel bag, wistfully looking around the loft as I work; I was really getting to think of this as a home.  
  
I come to the kitchen. Gabrielle turns to meet me, and stops when she sees my bag.  
  
"Mylandah? What's wrong? Are you in some sort of."  
  
"No'" I reply, "I'm not in any trouble. At least, no more than usual." The words are not the reassurance I had hoped they would be, but I continue. "The truth is, I'm going because I don't want trouble. For you, anyway. I won't risk putting you in danger by staying."  
  
She begins to object, but I stop her.  
  
"Besides, you said that I had to settle accounts concerning my feelings about a.certain person, and you were right. I must. And I cannot do it from here."  
  
"But, where are you going?"  
  
I gaze at her, reveling in her concern for me. My reply is heavy with sadness.  
  
"I'm sorry, but it's best you do not know. I do not want to involve you. The road I have chosen is stony and covered in fog. I do not know where or how I'll get where I'm going, but I'll feel better knowing you are out of any hazards I might run into. You've done more than enough for me already, and."  
  
I pull a pouch from my cloak, and hand it to her.  
  
"Please, Gabrielle, do me this favor. Accept this."  
  
She looks at me, unsure. After a pause, she slowly places her hands around it.  
  
"Say you'll keep it, and put it to use."  
  
My expression convinces her, even if her reply is unsteady. "If you insist, but.what *is* it?"  
  
"I know we agreed on a price for my room, which I've paid, but that's a.bonus, if you will. Twice the original cost of the room, it's my present to you. If you must have a reason for it, call it a gratuity, a deposit on the loft if I ever need to return, a farewell package. Remember, you said you'd keep it."  
  
"This is so *much*, though."  
  
"And it doesn't come close to what you've done for me in return."  
  
"Mylandah.watch out for yourself, please. I don't want anything to happen."  
  
Clumsily, I put my hand over hers. I've never been one for compassion, but if anyone deserves it from me, Gabrielle does.  
  
"Don't worry. My road might not be easy, but I think I can finish this journey - now."  
  
With great reluctance, she bids me farewell - but not before giving me several meal packs that she assembles on the spot. I halt before opening the door, and face her again.  
  
"If you could do one more favor for me, Gabrielle?"  
  
"Yes, just ask."  
  
"Go on a date with your doctor."  
  
Even in her worry, the statement makes her look up in confusion.  
  
"You ought to tell someone that you have feelings for them; if nothing else, you won't stay up nights wondering what would happen if you did - at least you'll know. I think you and he would make a fantastic couple."  
  
A smile comes across her face. It is still ringed with concern, but a smile nonetheless. I photograph it with my eyes.  
  
With a nod of her head, she agrees to my favor. Satisfied, I return the nod, flash what is one of the rare genuine smiles in my life, and walk out.  
  
The street is mostly empty again, as I had planned. The winds have become slight gusts, but now it is cold even without them, and no one gives me a look.  
  
I leave what has been the closest place to home I've known in months, in hope and fear.  
  
  
  
  
  
I make straight for one of the main thoroughfares. I stay on it a while, until I find a street that goes to one of the places I must visit before my shuttle flight.  
  
The cold does not affect me, not with having to concentrate on my work. Soon, I come to the small footbridge I was searching for.  
  
The stream running under the bridge is almost over its banks. There's been a lot of rain in the last two days; I've just been too busy to give it much attention. The water surges noisily through the night.  
  
Just what I was looking for.  
  
I cross to the midpoint of the bridge. A fast search of the area establishes that no one else is around, and I set my duffel bag on the bridge.  
  
I sit, and pull the slightly smaller athletic bag out. I spent most of the morning making sure that it was properly filled. Now I pull two sweaters from it; they replace the cloak I was wearing.  
  
With that out of the way, once again I sift through the 'decoys' I got earlier. One catches my eye, a heavy flashlight, nearly two feet long. I test the light by shining it into the bag, so as not to attract attention. Considering what I have to do now, it could be useful. I put it into the athletic bag as well. The rest of the decoys go into the duffel bag, along with my cloak.  
  
Still no one around.  
  
I heave the duffel bag over the bridge into the water. It lands near the bank, is pushed a short distance by the water, then snags on the bank five meters away. Satisfactory.  
  
I unsheathe my dagger; with my other hand I reach to the back of my head and clench my hair in my fist. I make a mental measurement, adjust the position of my hand, then place the dagger against my hair. Fortunately, I've kept the dagger sharp, but I still have to saw at the braid before it comes off.  
  
I look at the braid in my hand, and the silver circlet that tied it off near the bottom. For most of my life, almost as long as I can remember, putting on the circlet has been part of my daily routine. It's attractive now, just as it was when I first received it. In the moonlight, it shines, lightning seeming to run over its surface. I remain as fascinated by it now as when I first saw it.  
  
I throw the circlet, still attached to my newly shorn hair, into the stream. My aim is better this time, and I see the stream carry it off, out of sight.  
  
I rotate the dagger, gazing at the uncompromising lines, the blade that seems to cut the night air. It's done wonderful service for me. I gently replace it in its sheath.  
  
Without a sound, it strikes the water below.  
  
I stand, silently, on the bridge.  
  
I bend to pick up the athletic bag, and throw it on my shoulder. There is a small abandoned stall near the beach, which I saw on vidscreen during some news segment, the same way I found out about the bridge (and how long has it been since I was inclined to care enough to watch the news?), and I'm going there for some fine tuning to my appearance. After that, I get a shuttle to England, where I'll see if all my schemes and efforts have borne fruit.  
  
I could retrace my steps, or keep going to the opposite side.  
  
Which way to go?  
  
The bridge isn't long, so there's not really a difference.  
  
However.  
  
For some reason, I cannot seem to bring myself to go back the way I came.  
  
Yes, ahead. I must go ahead.  
  
I walk off the bridge, to the sound of the swiftly flowing stream.  
  
At the beach stall, I set up the flashlight and mirror so that I can see my face. With precise strokes, and some of my 'items', I blur some area and highlight others. When the effect is what I want, I go to a nearby souvenir photo booth stand; not long after, I've a dozen small photos of myself. One goes into an Identicard forgery I picked up in Paris, and the rest I save until it's convenient to dispose of them. I then mangle the card slightly, so that it appears to have been damaged in an accident. I know it's a makeshift at best, but this has to do. I pack up everything and make for a small airfield.  
  
When they ask for identification, I tell them that my card needs a replacement, and ask how long I must wait to get a new one. By this time it is late, and the security guard seems to have more enthusiasm for the concession stand at the other end of the building. Hastily, he fills in a 'Special Circumstance' pass, and tells me to get the card replaced immediately I get off the plane, and that he is sending my data on ahead so they'll know to look for me.  
  
I thank him and go to a seat, never allowing my smile to show.  
  
Neither the face nor the name on the Identicard was that of Mylandah Arkar Walder.  
  
Soon I find myself on a shuttle over the Channel, with what is hopefully my new home country about to pass under the wing.  
  
I allow myself to relax slightly, a minute sigh escaping.  
  
Perhaps, just perhaps, this might work.  
  
  
  
Notes: While Mylandah didn't say what her plan was, her actions indicate clearly what she's attempting to do. As for the instances of fear she shows (as opposed to the cold manner she was displaying for most of the series), remember that she's gone through a lot since being expelled, not to mention that she was going through emotional collapse at the end of the series. As for the chapter, this is the longest to date, and seems that it could have been two chapters (at least to me). However, this was chosen for the reason that, except for the postscript, I didn't want this going over five chapters. As originally 'written', this story was planned as between 2- 3000 words - at most. 


	6. Postscript: Distance Runner

Pariah  
  
by Vosburg  
  
Postscript: Distance Runner  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: No, still don't own Battle Athletes.  
  
  
  
A decent room.  
  
While I've stayed at better motels, it's been some time since I've gotten a room this attractive. Mostly, I've been refused entry at any motel maintained this well.  
  
I look at the alarm, an inexpensive type I got last night. In comparison to the motel's alarm, it looks rather shoddy, and has an irritating blatting sound, as opposed to the soft chime of the motel's.  
  
However, I cannot do what I wanted to with the motel alarm, which is why I purchased this one.  
  
I carefully set it on the nightstand.  
  
I bring my fist up, then, with mischievous satisfaction, down in an arc that smashes the alarm to flotsam. I scoop the fragments into a bag, and throw it into the w...no, the dustbin. That's what they call it here. I have to remember that.  
  
This is the last time I'll be able to treat an alarm in such a manner for a while, if all goes as it should.  
  
Not to mention that that alarm *was* irritating.  
  
I shower and dress. Appearance is of the utmost; there is a specific image I want.  
  
I'm nearly done when my gaze settles on my face for a second. For the first time, I see my new face fully in the light.  
  
My eyes are now a deep brown, thanks to some contact lenses I purchased in Paris. The lenses don't change the original crimson but deepen it, making it less likely for anyone to detect any alteration. The round-rimmed glasses make for a bookish appearance, even with the elastic strap that keeps them in place. Over all this is dark brown hair, combed, but still rather unkempt; there are some strands loose, but that's part of the image.  
  
I hold some of the strands for a minute, running my fingers through them. I'm still not accustomed to having hair that goes only to my shoulders.  
  
My 'disguise' is based on the logic of being uncomplicated and subtle. I've changed only what I had to so I won't have to worry that I've missed one of a dozen different items each time I leave the room. Changing eye color was a necessity; the crimson would have given me away in a second. My hair, though not an uncommon shade these days, could still be connected to my old identity.  
  
Conversely, most disguises that are effective are not those which change the appearance entirely, but change it *enough (at least that's how I *hope* it works). Thus, if I tried to change my eye color to light blue, it would seem unnatural. The only effect of the lenses is to deepen the crimson, to make it appear brown. The same with my hair coloring - blonde would show up as soon as my roots grew out; dark brown won't be nearly as blatant.  
  
I've kept the drab, loose fitting outfits I wore in Boulogne, now I straighten them as much as I'm able. The overall effect, though, remains the same.  
  
I seem a...what is that word...a frump, exactly the sort of girl I once wouldn't have anything to do with.  
  
The most effective aspect of my disguise, however, is that I have one at all. No one will look for Mylandah Walder to use a disguise because Mylandah Walder's reputation was as a woman who would never trouble to appear as anyone *but* herself.  
  
I place a bandage pad on my cheek, and comb my hair over it. I don't really need a bandage any more, but for today it will serve a vital purpose. I then gather my possessions and go to the front desk. There I pay the attendant, and turn in my room keys.  
  
The man briefly looks up at me.  
  
"Hope you get to the Satellite, Ms. Snowdon."  
  
"Thank you," I reply in English, presumably without accent, "I've been trying so long to get into a proper academy."  
  
"I don't know if you'd rightly call the local one proper, but I suppose it passes. Anyway, best fortune to you."  
  
I hide a smile. The academy where my trials will be is not known for sending many athletes to the Satellite. Thus, they are not as strict on their entry requirements - in short, a middling academy - which is the reason I chose them.  
  
I nod to the attendant and head out.  
  
While it's warmer than I thought, the clouds are a gray sheet over half the sky. From the looks of them, it'll rain soon.  
  
Some of the local citizens mutter about the weather. I merely stride along, managing to keep a broad smile from my face. Wouldn't do to look too cheerful, as they might wonder why I'm happy with such ominous weather.  
  
  
  
As I near the school, I survey the area. While most training academies are generally in the country, this is one of the exceptions.  
  
Manchester Victory Academy, near the center of the city, almost seems an anachronism. With the majority of schools being massive structures of steel and steel-like glass, the stone and brick of this academy look...ancient. The vines on the walls don't do much to dispel the image.  
  
I stand in front of the gates, more nervous than I have ever been. The intercom beeps once, and someone says that a faculty member is on the way to meet me. That is unsettling as well; I must make the right impression here.  
  
The woman who greets me is in her early thirties, from the looks of it. Middling build; well toned, confident.  
  
"You are Gabrielle Snowdon?"  
  
So I'm not proficient with aliases. I 'stole' the first name of my friend (friend? When was the last time I used that to refer to *anyone*?), and the second is a name I saw on an inn in England once. It was a hasty decision, but a choice I'm able to live with.  
  
The way she asks my identity, it is a statement, as if she expects that it would be no one else. From her voice, I'd wager that she's had some years in the military. "Yes," I reply, they told me I was to have my entrance tests today."  
  
"Your Identicard?" Another statement, as if there is no other choice but for me to have it.  
  
"One minute, please," I say before rooting in my bag for the card. It is for show only, as I know where the card is; however, the impression I make is vital to the success of my plan.  
  
For what seems an agonizingly long time, she scans the card - when she finally seems satisfied, I must prevent myself from falling to the ground in relief. So much depended on whether she accepted what she saw on the card, and in my face. I hope this isn't a ruse, that I've been found out - not after I've gone through so much to get here.  
  
Soon, I'm following her up the walk to the main campus.  
  
"I'm Headmistress Ingersoll," she says, without turning, "and, if you pass your preliminaries, you'll be in one of the dorms in the Persistence Wing. Not my jurisdiction, but *that* headmaster is somewhat occupied right now."  
  
"The...Persistence Wing, sir?"  
  
"Both wings of the academy are named for the attributes that the founder thought most necessary for becoming a Battle Athlete. One wing is 'Focus', the other 'Persistence'," she says in an offhand manner, as if giving a tour.  
  
"I see," I reply, merely to show that I'm listening.  
  
I enter the main campus, and am greeted by the spectacle of about thirty girls on their way to and from class, discussing various subjects in small groups, or enthusing/fretting about their standings.  
  
I breathe it in like mountain air. The prospect of being back in training is exciting. I never felt this way the first time I was in a training academy. At that time I was filled with confidence, and the thought of *not* getting to the Satellite was completely foreign to me.  
  
I find myself in the admissions area, with Headmistress Ingersoll pointing me to Admissions. Suddenly, she stops, and calls to an older man who has just entered.  
  
"Wycliffe, this is one of yours, I think," she says, indicating me.  
  
"Is she now," the man says, in a voice that resounds through the room, vast as it is. The owner of the voice is in his mid-sixties, I think, with a minutely trimmed mustache. A senior faculty member, from his appearance - or it might be the way he carries himself that gives me that impression.  
  
"So...you are Ms. Snowdon. Somewhat unusual to have someone coming in at this point in the semester."  
  
"Yes, Headmaster, I'm sorry, but under the circumstances, it was unavoidable."  
  
Headmaster Wycliffe waves his hand dismissively. "Irrelevant. After Admissions has gotten you through the preliminaries, you'll have a battery of trial runs. *Those* will determine if you'll join us here."  
  
"Yes, sir, thank you."  
  
If anyone who knew me from a year ago saw me now, their astonishment would be unparalleled. Before, the most I showed my instructors was tolerance, not deferential respect - and that included Grant Oldman.  
  
Much has happened since then. I've gotten many painful lessons in humility, and I'm intimately aware of how insecure my position is, even after I pass the trials. (Yes, *after*, not *if*, I cannot even think of failing now.)  
  
Headmaster Wycliffe says that he will oversee my trials personally. For a second I'm unsure of myself; his manner is intimidating. Presently, I steel myself - there is no other way but to pass.  
  
However, there is one more item I must see to before the trials. After I finish my paperwork, I glance around the floor. Soon I find what I'm searching for: A case of supplies that someone neglected to put to the side. I file its position for reference.  
  
When I'm called for my trials, I put on an expression that is both confused and meek, stepping forth as if unsure of myself (which is not entirely untrue).  
  
My foot snags on the case. My arms flail wildly, but I cannot halt my fall, and wind up sprawled on the floor. As I begin to rise from the floor, I hear whispering around me, and muted snickering. My cheeks turn red, and I apologize several times to Headmaster Wycliffe.  
  
"Compose yourself, Ms. Snowdon," he replies, "such events are natural during the first days at an academy." Drawing to his full height, he turns to the source of the snickering, his voice echoing through the room. "I would go so far as to say *everyone* goes through an experience such as this, so there is really no reason for feeling ourselves superior to the new student now, is there?"  
  
Whether he's struck a nerve with some of the students, or if it is the resonance in his voice, the snickering stops as if a switch was thrown. So does most of the other conversation. Headmaster Ingersoll calls for whoever left the case on the floor, and it is hastily shifted out of the way.  
  
As I regain my feet, nearly everyone's attention is on me. I hastily brush my palm against my hair to straighten it out, but my hand instead snags on my bandage and pulls it off. After a second of surprise, my hand flies back up to cover the scar - but not before some of the students have seen it. My gaze falls to the floor, my humiliation apparent to all.  
  
"And what do you think you're doing?" Headmaster Wycliffe demands, his eyes solidly on me.  
  
"Sir, I was hoping that...no one would see this, at least not for awhile."  
  
"What nonsense is that?" The words ring through the room, obviously he is speaking to everyone. "Life wounds everyone, Ms. Snowdon. We cannot allow such wounds to distract us from our goals. You must know as much, or you could not have made the journey here."  
  
My head comes up in astonishment. While the statement is made without knowing what I have gone through to get here, it is uncannily appropriate.  
  
Swiftly, he pivots on his heel. "As I have much to do, it's time to see to your trials."  
  
"Yes sir. Thank you, sir. I..."  
  
But he is already on his way, so I have no choice but to follow.  
  
  
  
Some time after, I'm in my dorm room.  
  
*My* room. I revel in the phrase.  
  
I've made the cutoff, which brings some astonishment; that everything has gone to plan is...unnerving, in a way.  
  
Not that it was easy. The instructors and my headmaster gave me a list of areas that I must devote extra training to. After all that time 'off the field', I've got to retrain in the disciplines of a Battle Athlete again. Not to mention that my body was protesting much more than it should have during the trials. The weight I put on at Gabrielle's must come off. I sigh, somewhat loudly, at the prospect of the effort required to lose it. In the old days, I never would have gained it, or even if I had, I would have done what was necessary to lose it, without hesitation. Now, all I'm able to think of is how much I miss Gabrielle's cheesecake. I must not allow such desires to distract me now.  
  
I draw the forged Identicard from my pocket. I wonder if it is safe to use. I'll continue to use cash whenever viable, as every use of my Identicard is a risk, however slight.  
  
As I stand in front of the full-length mirror, the events of the past weeks come to memory. Even if I meant no malice, I've misled many of those around me, including Gabrielle, who was more of a mother to me than my *real* mother ever could be. I put a mild skin irritant on my wound to trick her doctor into thinking my scar would be more prominent than it was - where it once stood out like a vein, it is now only a raised line on my skin.  
  
And in gaining acceptance to this academy, my deceptions have continued. The fall I had in the main hall was for the eyes of the other students. No doubt the word is circulating about the clumsy new student, even as I stand here. The same for the exposure of my scar; placing my palm over it made it appear as if I was trying to conceal it, when I was really calling attention to it. Now most of the students will focus on the scar, not on my face, which reduces the odds that they will connect me with Mylandah Walder. However, there is much for me to do in maintaining my new identity. I must accustom myself to responding to the name 'Gabrielle', and not when someone speaks of 'Mylandah', as there will certainly be some mention of the name in a training academy. I must also make a daily check of my disguise, from seeing that the contacts cover the crimson of my eyes, to constantly inspecting my hair to see if the roots have grown out enough to show the original color.  
  
My training must reflect the new me, as well. I must not show myself strong in the events that Mylandah was, at least not at once. My martial arts must change, too. I've registered for classes that emphasize blocks and throws rather than kicks; rendering opponents impotent, not unconscious.  
  
That's odd. I kept thinking about my name as if it referred to someone else. The realization strikes me that in a way, it does.  
  
The more I think on it, the clearer it becomes.  
  
Mylandah Arkar Walder cannot get to the Satellite. If the order for expulsion were reversed, that would not be for many years - likely past my useful career as an athlete.  
  
While 'Gabrielle Snowdon' is not certain of reaching the Satellite either, at least there is the opportunity for her to make the attempt.  
  
Yet, I wonder if I've really changed. There is still a remote part of me that cannot understand my loss to the clumsy daughter of Tomoe Midou, and that thinks of the Beginner girl as an inferior 'rural'.  
  
However, that is the remote part of me. I've come to accept what happened in the past, even if they are unpleasant memories. I might not have changed completely, but I know that I differ from who I was.  
  
I know as well that my disguise cannot last indefinitely. Reaching the Satellite is only the first goal. After that, I must face Grant Oldman again.  
  
I do not know what I'll say when the time comes. While Oldman might be a pervert, and is surely a voyeur, he is no fool. Perhaps I ought to seize the initiative and reveal my identity before I'm recognized, as a sign of honesty. Most certainly, he will discern my identity at some point anyway. All I'll be able to do is explain why I've done what I've done, and hope that he will be generous.  
  
Beyond that, I must face Lahrri again. My greatest hope and my greatest fear. While it would be wonderful if she accepts what I have to say, I know that if she refuses, I must go on with my life. Still, the thought that she might refuse, after I've gone through so much, scares me more than anything I've experienced in my life.  
  
Yet, I won't find my answer here. My goal is the Satellite Academy.  
  
I open the windows and ease myself through to where my shoulders are outside, giving me a wide view of the sky.  
  
There are more clouds now, but I'm able to see patches of sky through them. The air is cold, slightly misty.  
  
I gaze at the sky, sending a hopeful dream to the Satellite:  
  
Wait for me, Lahrri.  
  
I will return to you.  
  
  
  
-00-  
  
And to think this was only going to run 2-3000 words as I originally planned it.  
  
I've been writing this sporadically (not that I thought it would be *this* long) for nearly a *year*? Even when I said in the first chapter that updates would come as I was able to post them, this was much longer than I'd conceived. Many times I came to an impasse in the story ('what follows from this point?'), not at all assisted by my typing (what? WPM doesn't stand for Words Per Month?), and various irritations combined to produce the gap between first and final chapter. (I did manage a much shorter and faster fanfic in the same time - have to remember how I did that.)  
  
As for [M], while I've a general plan of what happens after this, I wanted to have 'Pariah' open-ended. While she might not know if she's changed much, there is really a lot that is different from the woman she was on the Satellite. She knows that her journey back is full of potential pitfalls, and could ultimately fail, yet she makes the journey anyway - and is all the more courageous for doing so.  
  
For everyone who read/ reviewed, thank you.  
  
Vosburg 


End file.
